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Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

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http://www.archive.org/details/collectedpoemsofOOcampiala 


The  Collected  Poems 

OF 

Wilfred   Campbell 


New  York        Chicago       Toronto 

Fleming  H.   Revell  Company 

London     and     Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto:  27  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  ^Square 
Edinburgh:     100    Princes    Street 


PREFACE 

The  verse  in  this  collection  is  all,  not  dramatic  in 
form,  which  the  author  cares  to  preserve,  and  much 
of  it  is  selected  from  the  several  volumes  which  he 
has  published. 

There  is,  however,  a  very  large  portion  of  it  new 
verse,  either  now  published  for  the  first  time  or  which 
has  seen  the  light  only  in  some  of  the  magazines  of 
Britain  and  America.  Much  of  the  verse  included 
has  been  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly^  The  Cen- 
tury^ Harper's^  Scribner^s,  The  London  Spectator  and 
other  periodicals  prominent  in  the  English-speaking 
world. 

The  poetical  tragedies  and  dramas,  "Mordred," 
*  *  Hildebrand, "  ' '  The  Brockenfiend, "  ' '  Eobespierre, ' ' 
''Daulac,"  "Morning,"  "Sanio"  and  the  "Admiral's 
Daughter,"  will,  the  most  of  them,  be  included  in  a 
companion  volume  to  be  published  later.  Mean- 
while, this  volume  of  lyrical  verse  is  respectfally 
presented  to  the  British  and  American  public. 

New  Edinburgh,  Ottawa,  November,  1905. 


INTRODUCTION 

Simplicity  and  directness  are  essential  to  the 
highest  class  of  verse.  In  the  judgment  of  poetry 
this  principle  must  never  be  lost  sight  of. 

Goethe,  perhaps  the  greatest  literary  mind  since 
Shakespeare,  is  noted  for  his  simplicity  and  direct- 
ness of  manner.  The  effort  to  dwarf  the  writing  of 
verse  into  an  obscure  cult,  will  fail  so  long  as  the 
people  keep  themselves  familiar  with  the  verse  of 
the  great  poets  of  the  past — whose  work  is  true  and 
beautiful  because  of  its  very  character  of  direct,  sim- 
ple naturalness. 

It  may  be  difficult  to  explain  to  the  layman  the 
conditions  which  produce  poetry  but  no  person  of 
a  poetical  temperament  (and  I  believe  that  the  greater 
mass  of  readers  have  such  an  inclination)  can  fail  to 
appreciate  a  true  poem.  The  failure  to  appreciate 
verse  to-day  is  not  owing  so  much  to  the  inability  of 
the  public  to  recognize  a  poem,  as  to  the  attempt  of 
certain  critics  to  force  upon  the  public  as  poetry, 
what  is  after  all  at  the  most  only  clever  verse. 
The  result  is  a  sort  of  confusion  in  the  mind  of  the 
ordinary  reader  who  in  the  past  was  accustomed  to 
judge  by  his  own  feelings. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  poetry  is  first  and  last  a 
high  emotion.  It  is  a  sort  of  instrument  which  thrills 
the  soul  not  only  by  what  it  reveals  but  by  what  it 

v 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

suggests.  For  this  reason,  a  mere  esthetic  word-pic- 
ture, no  matter  how  carefully  wrought,  is  not  in  the 
true  sense  poetry. 

It  may  emulate  the  careful  photograph  which  seem- 
ingly loses  nothing,  yet  fails  to  catch  the  one  neces- 
sary insight  which-  the  painter  who  is  a  genius  puts 
into  his  picture — that  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land,  yet  which  all  men  see  sometime  or  other  in 
what  the  average  world  may  call  the  dull  and  com- 
monplace. There  may  be  a  danger,  however,  that  a 
cult  to  see  beauty  in  the  commonplace  will  grow  from 
the  affectation  to  seem  artistic  and  poetical.  After 
all,  the  beauty  we  see  in  a  special  verse  is  in  our- 
selves. There  is  the  universal  beauty  which  all  see. 
That  is  the  real,  the  lasting  beauty.  There  is  the 
greatness  of  life  as  life,  the  greatness  inherent  in 
noble  actions  and  noble  aims ;  the  pathos  of  a  great 
love,  a  great  self-denial  or  a  great  despair.  There  is 
the  greatness  of  a  struggle  for  a  lost  cause  (how  man- 
kind loves  a  lost  cause).  There  is  a  majesty  of  life 
and  death  ;  the  majesty  of  ocean  and  shore  and  lofty 
hills.  All  of  this  is  universal,  and  of  this  poetry  is 
made. 

After  all,  the  real  root  of  all  poetry  from  Shakes- 
peare to  the  latest  singer  is  in  the  human  heart.  The 
mind  is  cold  and  critical.  It  plans  and  plots.  It 
examines  and  sifts.  Man  with  the  mind  alone  were 
but  a  mean  creature.  Man  the  planner  and  plotter, 
the  schemer  and  builder,  may  move  mountains  and 
yet  be  little  better  than  the  ape.  It  is  man  the 
hoper,  man  the  dreamer,  the  eternal  child  of  delight 
and  despair  whose  ideals  and  desires  are  ever  a  life- 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

time  ahead  of  his  greatest  accomplishments,  who  is 
the  hero  of  nature  and  the  darling  of  the  ages.  Be- 
cause of  this,  true  poetry  will  always  be  to  him  a 
language,  speaking  to  him  from  the  highest  levels  of 
his  being  and  a  sort  of  translation  from  a  more  divine 
tongue  emanating  from  the  mystery  and  will  of  God. 

Poetry  may  have  many  messages ;  but  above  all 
stands  the  eternal  appeal  from  life  and  nature.  All 
descriptions  of  water  and  land,  sky  and  earth,  summer 
and  winter,  are  not  necessarily  poetry,  any  more  than 
are  all  verses  on  life  and  death  and  love  and  de- 
spair. But  the  greatest  poetry  is  that  dealing  with 
the  human  soul.  The  highest  class  of  poetry,  that 
of  Shakespeare,  that  of  the  Old  Testament,  of  Goethe, 
is  that  dealing  with  the  eternal  tragedy  of  life  in  the 
universe.  The  eternal  theme  of  man  is  man.  But 
all  poetry  may  not  stand  on  this  high  level.  There 
are  lesser  degrees  of  the  divine  emotion,  and  much 
that  is  true,  beautiful  and  majestic  in  the  verse  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries. 

In  the  work  of  the  great  nature  poets,  the  very 
strength  and  beauty  of  the  verse  is  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  thought  and  imagination  dwell  upon  the 
human,  and  nature  as  affecting  the  human,  rather 
than  upon  the  mere  objective  nature,  as  solely  an 
esthetic  aspect.  The  greatness  of  such  verse  consists 
in  its  lofby  emotion,  whereby  it  conveys  to  the  soul 
an  impressive  sense  of  the  majesty  of  life  and  death. 
It  is  not  merely  the  work  of  the  literary  artist, 
who  paints  in  words  on  a  sort  of  literary  canvas ; 
but  whether  the  idea  be  death  or  a  season,  the  mood 
i§  a  creatioR  of  a  soul  strongly  imbued  with  a  feeling 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

of  the  sublimity  of  life.  In  such  verse  one  is  lifted 
out  of  the  common  into  an  atmosphere  of  spiritual 
exaltation,  such  as  only  true  poetry  has  the  power  to 
create. 

In  dealing  with  a  volume  of  verse  it  is  perfectly 
right  that  the  reader  should  be  guided  only  by  the 
highest  standards  in  the  selection  or  rejection  of 
poetry  as  such.  To  find  the  true  poetry  needs  no 
subtle  insight  into  the  intricacies  of  language  and 
the  laws  of  prosody.  The  soul  of  the  man  of  pure 
sentiment  and  cultured  mind  is  at  once  attracted  to 
true  poetry  through  those  very  impressive  qualities 
which  mark  it  out  from  the  body  of  mere  rhyme  or 
unrhymed  effusions  and  literary  exercises  with  which, 
even  in  the  volumes  of  our  noblest  poets,  it  is  some- 
times mingled. 


CONTENTS 


PAQS 

A  Dedication    -..--.-        15 

Elemental  and  Human  Verse — 

Poetry         .......        19 

My  Library 

21 

Lines  on  a  Skeleton 

21 

The  Soul's  Bath      - 

23 

The  Discoverers 

24 

The  Hills  and  the  Sea 

29 

The  Vanguard 

30 

Commemoration  Ode 

35 

The  Dreamers 

39 

The  Lyre  Degenerate 

42 

Work 

45 

The  Blind  Caravan 

46 

Ode  to  the  Laurentian  Hills 

48 

The  Art  Divine 

49 

Day  and  Night 

60 

My  Creed    ... 

60 

Responsibility 

51 

Sleep            ... 

61 

Sleep 

52 

The  Question 

53 

The  House  of  Dreams 

57 

Soul             .... 

58 

Life-Spent  ... 

64 

A  Present-Day  Creed 

65 

Truth           .... 

65 

The  Singer 

66 

IX 


X                                         CONTENTS 

Elemental  and  Human  Versk— Co7i/»nued.                             pam 

The  Heart  of  Song 

-        67 

Genius 

68 

The  Last  Prayer     - 

70 

Unabsolved     - 

72 

Return  No  More  !  - 

80 

The  Lyre  of  the  Gods 

81 

The  Soul's  House    - 

83 

Orpheus 

85 

Glen  Eila    - 

86 

The  Betrayed  Singer 

89 

Nature  Veese— 

Nature        .......93 

The  Home  of  Song 

93 

Higher  Kinship 

95 

Wind 

96 

Earth 

98 

Snow 

99 

Snowfall      - 

■      101 

The  Dryad's  House 

101 

August 

103 

Cape  Eternity 

-      103 

The  Mystery 

104 

Spring 

105 

In  the  Spring  Fields 

108 

Renewal 

108 

The  Dryad 

109 

A  Northern  River 

112 

The  Humming  Bee 

■      114 

A  Wood  Lyric 

116 

An  August  Reverie 

117 

To  the  Ottawa 

120 

Glory  of  the  Dying  Day     - 

120 

Walls  of  Green 

122 

Ode  to  Sileace 

123 

Ode  to  Thunder  Cape 

« 

» 

m 

CONTENTS 


XI 


Nattjbb  Vekse — Continued. 


To  the  Rideau  River 

-      127 

The  Wind-Dancer 

-      129 

Winter 

-      130 

The  Spring-Spirit  -            -            -            . 

-      132 

In  the  Strength  of  the  Trees 

-      133 

Autumn      .            .            -           -            . 

-      134 

The  Journey            .            .            .            . 

-      136 

The  Message  of  Night 

-      137 

The  Dream  Divine 

-      138 

Titan           .... 

-      139 

Morning      .            .            .            .            . 

-      142 

The  Earth-Spirit    -            -            -            . 

-      142 

Rododactulos           .            .            .            . 

.      143 

The  End  of  the  Furrow     - 

-      143 

The  Pageantry  of  Death    - 

-      144 

An  October  Evening 

-      146 

To  the  Blackberry 

-      147 

Before  the  Dawn    - 

-      149 

A  Winter's  Night  - 

-      149 

Dawn  in  the  June  Woods  - 

-      150 

September  in  the  Lauren tian  Hills 

-      151 

Indian  Summer 

-       152 

Song            .            -            .             .            . 

-      152 

Autumn  Leaves 

-      163 

GIAC  AND   MeMORTAT,  VeRSB — 

Victoria      .... 

-      157 

The  Dead  Poet 

-      162 

Summer  Death 

-      165 

Sebastian  Cabot      - 

-      172 

Bereavement  of  the  Fields 

-      176 

Nicholas  Flood  Davin 

-      179 

Henry  A.  Harper  - 

-      181 

The  Dead  Leader  - 

-      183 

Alexander  Lumsden 

.      185 

»! 


CONTENTS 


POKMS  OF  THB   AjFECTIONS — 

Beyond  the  Hills  of  Dream 

Love 

Afterglow   - 

Out  of  Pompeii 

Harvest  Slumber  Son^ 

The  Mother 

On  a  Summer  Shore 

Belated 

Departure   - 

Her  Look    - 

Dramatic,  Classical  and  Imaginativb  Vbksk- 
The  Last  Scene  from  "  Mordred  " 
Pan  the  Fallen 
Phaethon     - 
Sir  Lancelot 
The  Wayfarer 
Peniel 
Cain 
Lazarus 
Ahmet 

The  Elf-Lover 
The  Were-Wolves  - 
The  Vengeance  of  Saki 
The  Last  Ride 
The  Violin 
Songs  from  "  Mordred  " 

Sonnets — 

Our  Heritage 
The  Builders 
The  Higher  Kinship 
Nature  the  Benign 
The  Soul     - 
My  Religion 
Toleration  - 


189 
192 
192 
193 
194 
195 
199 
200 
202 
204 


207 
210 
212 
219 
225 
230 
236 
238 
241 
249 
251 
254 
261 
265 
267 


273 
273 
274 
274 
276 
275 
276 


CONTENTS 

Tiii 

SoNNKTS — Continued.                                                                      paoi 

September  -...---      276 

Nature  Truth 

-      277 

The  Truth  - 

-      277 

Life's  Inferno 

-      278 

Death          -           -            - 

-      278 

The  Consolation  of  the  Stars 

-      279 

True  Insight 

-      279 

The  House  Divine  - 

-      280 

"  Not  Unto  Endless  Dark  " 

-      280 

The  Wind's  Royalty 

-      281 

Nature's  Sincerity 

-      281 

The  Soul's  Cloister 

-      282 

Earth's  Innocence 

-      282 

Love 

-      283 

Foundations 

-      283 

The  Poet     - 

-      284 

The  Politician 

-      284 

Sublimity    - 

-      285 

The  Patriot 

-      285 

Night 

-      286 

Job 

-      286 

On  a  Picture  of  Columbus 

-      287 

Shelley        .... 

-      288 

The  Sagas  ov  Vaster  Britain— 

Britain         --.--.-      291 

Canada        ... 

-      291 

To  the  Canadian  Patriot    - 

.      293 

To  the  United  States 

-      294 

Responsibility 

-      295 

The  Race    - 

.      296 

The  Answer 

-      296 

England      ... 

-      297 

The  World-Mother  (Scotland) 

.      299 

The  Lazarus  of  Empire 

.      303 

Show  the  Way,  England   - 

•      305 

XIV 


CONTENTS 


The  Sagas  of  Vasteb  Britain — Continued. 


The  Children 

310 

Briton  to  Briton :  An  Appeal        ... 

312 

Canada        .-.---. 

314 

Victoria       ...... 

.      317 

The  Lament  for  the  Chief  -            -            -            -            ■ 

322 

Mafeking    --...-. 

325 

Onr  Bit  of  "  The  Thin  Red  Line  "             -  ,         • 

329 

Return  of  the  Troops          .            .            .            .            . 

.      331 

Crowning  of  Empire           -            .             .            -            . 

■      333 

Lake  Lyrics — 

Vapor  and  Blue      ..-.-. 

341 

The  Children  of  the  Foam 

342 

How  One  Winter  Came  in  the  Lake  Region 

344 

345 

The  Winter  Lakes 

346 

A  Lake  Memory     - 

■      347 

The  Flight  of  the  Gulls 

348 

How  Spring  Came 

349 

Lake  Huron 

350 

Sunset,  Lake  Huron 

■      350 

Nama-Way-Qua-Donk— The  Bi 

ly  of  Sturgeons            • 

■      352 

H  DeMcation 


In  the  struggling,  darkened  horde 
Of  this  world's  wide  moan. 

Dreamer  of  the  golden  reed. 
Thou  must  thrive  alone. 

Too  busy  in  its  fevered  marts, 

Too  eager  in  its  strife. 
Where  all  would  teach,  and  few 
would  leam. 

We  lose  the  larger  life. 

We  pass  the  fields  of  magic  by. 
To  reach  the  favored  place ; 

And  sadly  find  our  gods  have  gone 
With  far  averted  face. 

Elager  to  clutch  the  golden  "then," 
Or  flee  from  out  the  fear. 

Too  late  we  leara,  too  late,  alas, 
We  missed  the  gloried  "  here." 


Elemental  an&  Ibuman  IDerse 


Poems  of  fflilfab  Campbell 

Poetry 

Earth's  dream  of  poetry  will  never  die. 
It  lingers  while  we  linger,  base  or  true — 
A  part  of  all  this  being.    Life  may  change. 
Old  customs  wither,  creeds  become  as  nought, 
Like  autumn  husks  in  rainwinds ;  men  may  kill 
All  memory  of  the  greatness  of  the  past. 
Kingdoms  may  melt,  republics  wane  and  die, 
New  dreams  arise  and  shake  this  jaded  world ; 
But  that  rare  spirit  of  song  will  breathe  and  live 
WTiile  beauty,  sorrow,  greatness  hold  for  men 
A  kinship  with  the  eternal ;  until  all 
That  earth  holds  noble  wastes  and  fades  away. 
Wrong  cannot  kill  it.    Man's  material  dream 
May  scorn  its  uses,  worship  baser  hope 
Of  life's  high  purpose,  build  about  the  world 
A  brazen  rampart:  through  it  all  will  come 
The  iron  moan  of  life's  unresting  sea ; 
And  through  its  floors,  as  filtered  blooms  of  dawn. 
Those  flowers  of  dream  will  spring,  eternal,  sweet. 
Speaking  for  God  and  man;  the  infinite  mystery 
Will  ever  fold  life  round;  the  mighty  heart 
Of  earth's  humanity  ceaseless  throb  and  beat 
As  round  this  globe  the  vasty  deeps  of  sky. 
And  roimd  earth's  shores  the  wide,  encompassing  sea. 
Outside  this  rind  of  hardened  human  strife 
There  lies  this  mantle  of  mighty  majesty, 
Thought's  cunning  cannot  probe,  its  science  plumb. 
Earth's  schools  of  wisdom,  in  their  darkness,  spell 
The  common  runes  of  knowledge;  but  there  lies 
2  19 


20  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

A  greatness,  vast,  behind  this  taper  gleam, 

That  stands  for  somewhat  lore  hath  never  weighed 

In  all  its  ponderings  of  thought-pulsing  brain. 

Shakespeare,  the  Mighty,  touched  it  as  he  passed. 

The  Man  in  Uz  did  feel  it,  shook  the  folds 

Of  some  great  garment's  hem  of  One  who  passed 

The  vasty  gates  of  Orion  at  one  stride. 

All  earth's  high  souls  have  felt  it  in  their  time, 

Have  risen  to  this  mighty  deep  in  thought. 

Or  worshipped  in  the  blackness  and  the  gleam. 

Dream  not  because  life's  taper  flame  grows  dim, 

Man's  soul  grows  wasted  gazing  on  dull  gold. 

His  spirit  shrunk  with  canker  of  life's  ill. 

That  earth's  great  nights  will  darken  their  splendors 

down. 
Her  dawns  will  fail  to  rise,  this  mighty  world 
Will  cease  to  roll  its  vast  appointed  way ; 
And  beauty  and  love,  and  all  that  man  holds  sweet 
For  youth  and  age,  the  effort  glad,  the  joy. 
The  memory  of  old  greatness  gone  before, 
Not  hold  their  magic  'neath  the  Almighty  Will. 

Yea,  'tis  eternal  as  the  wave,  the  sky. 
Changing  forever,  never  wholly  passing, 
A  part  of  all  this  dream  that  will  not  die. 
It  lives  forever.    Years  may  fade  and  pass. 
Youth's  dream  decline  to  age  and  death's  decay,. 
Ills  and  sharp  griefs,  despairs  and  agonies  come: 
While  earth  remains  her  spirit  will  not  fail. 
That  greatness  back  of  all  will  still  console, 
Man's  life  will  still  be  sweet,  its  purpose  glad. 
The  morn  will  still  be  morning,  and  the  night 
Star  splendors  arched  above  the  eternal  peace, 
The  eternal  yearning  and  the  eternal  dream. 


LINES  ON  A   SKELETON  21 

My  Library 

You  ask  me  where  I  get  these  thoughts. 

These  dreams  melodious,  mystical, 
I  read  them  in  God's  book  of  lore, 

Wide  open,  splendid,  by  my  door. 

Its  pages  are  the  magic  sky, 

The  wonder  of  the  iron  earth. 
And  all  those  dreams  that  time  let  fly  1 

Since  being's  earliest  birth.  "  1 

I  read  them  in  those  curious  runes,  i 

Those  tragedies  of  love  and  strife,  '          | 

That  chart  of  memory-haunted  dunes,  ^^ 

That  demon  angel-book  that  man  calls  life.  ' 


Lines  on  a  Skeleton 

This  was  the  mightiest  house  that  God  e'er  made, 
This  roofless  mansion  of  the  incorruptible. 
These  joists  and  bastions  once  bore  walls  as  fair 
As  Solomon's  palace  of  white  ivory. 
Here  majesty  and  love  and  beauty  dwelt, 
Shakespeare's  wit  from  these  lorn  walls  looked  down. 
Sadness  like  the  autumn  made  it  bare. 
Passion  like  a  tempest  shook  its  base. 
And  joy  filled  all  its  halls  with  ecstasy. 

This  was  the  home  wherein  all  dreams  of  earth 

And  air  and  ocean,  all  supreme  delights. 

Made  mirth  and  madness :  wisdom  pored  alone ; 

And  power  dominion  held:  and  splendid  hope: 

And  fancy  like  the  delicate  sunrise  woke 

To  burgeoning  thought  and  form  and  melody. 


22  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Beneath  its  dome  the  agony  of  the  Jew, 
The  pride  of  Caesar  or  the  hate  of  Cain, 
The  thought  of  Plato  or  the  heart  of  Bums 
Once  dwelt  in  some  dim  form  of  being's  light. 

Within  these  walls  of,  wondrous  structure,  dread. 
A  magic  lute  of  clfin  melody 
]\Iade  music  immortal,  such  as  never  came 
From  out  those  ancient  halls  of  Orphean  song. 

Love  dreamed  of  it,  and  like  a  joy  it  rose. 
Power  shaped  its  firm  foundations  like  the  base 
Of  mountain  majesty:  and  o'er  its  towers 
Truth  from  fair  windows  made  his  light  look  down. 

But  came  a  weird  and  evil  demon  host, 
Besieged  its  walls,  destroyed  its  marvellous  front; 
Shuttered  its  casements,  dismantled  all  its  dream. 
And  hurled  it  down  from  out  its  sunward  height; 
And  now  it  lies  bereft  of  all  its  joy 
And  pride  and  power  and  godlike  majesty; 
The  sport  of  elements  and  hideous  mimes. 
That  blench  its  corridors,  desecrate  its  rooms, 
Where  once  dwelt  love  and  beauty,  joy  and  hope. 
Now  tenantless:  save  for  the  incurious  wind. 
And  ghostlike  rains  that  beat  its  bastions  bare. 
And  evil  things  that  creep  its  chambers  through. 

But  whither  thence  is  fled  that  tenant  rare, 
That  weird  indweller  of  this  wasted  house? 
Back  from  the  petalled  bloom  withdraws  the  dew. 
The  melody  from  the  shell,  the  day  from  heaven. 
To  build  afar  earth's  resurrection  mom. 


THE  SOUL'S  BATH 

And  so.  Love  trusts,  in  some  diviner  air 
The  lord  of  this  lorn  mansion  dwells  in  light 
Of  vaster  beauty,  vaster  scope  and  dream; 
Where  weariness  and  gladness  satiate  not. 
Where  power  and  splendid  being  know  no  ruin. 
And  evil  greeds  and  envyings  work  no  wrong. 


The  Soul's  Bath 

At  even  when  the  roseate  deeps 

Of  daylight  dim  from  heaven's  bars, 

The  soul  her  earth-worn  garment  slips. 
And  naked  stands  beneath  the  stars ; 

And  there  unto  that  river  vast. 

That  mighty  tide  of  night,  whose  girth 
With  splendid  planets,  brimming  past. 

Doth  wash  the  ancient  rim  of  earth. 

She  comes  and  plunges  in;  and  laves 
Her  weariness  in  that  vast  tide, 

That  life-renewing  deep,  whose  waves 
Are  wide  as  night  is  wide. 

Then  from  the  pure  translucent  flow 
Of  that  unplumbed,  invigorate  sea. 

Godlike  in  truth's  white  spirit-glow 
She  stands  unshamed  and  free. 


24  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The   Discoverers  j 

This  poem  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  all  those  great  souls  ' 
who,  in  days  gone  by,  in  the  bold  ipirit  of  discovery  ventured  out 

on  the  then  trackless  seas  of  the  unknown  west,  iu  quest  of  this  i 

New  World  which  their  undaunted  zeal  and  enterprise  have  won  ' 

for  us  as  a  boon  to  the  race  and  a  blessing  to  mankind.  ( 

They  feared  no  unknown,  saw  no  horizon  dark, 

Counted  no  danger;  dreamed  all  seas  their  road  I 

To  possible  futures:  struck  no  craven  sail  \ 

For  sloth  or  indolent  cowardice ;  steered  their  keels  ! 

O'er  crests  of  heaving  ocean,  leagues  of  brine,  J 

While  Hope  firm  kept  the  tiller,  Faith,  in  dreams,  i 

Saw  coasts  of  gleaming  continents  looming  large  i 

Beyond  the  ultimate  of  the  sea's  far  rim.  ' 

Thus  was  it  ever.    Souls  too  great  for  sloth  '\ 

And  impotent  ease,  goaded  by  inward  pain  ; 

Of  some  divine,  great  yearning  restlessness;  | 

Which  would  not  sit  at  home  on  servile  shores 

And  take  the  good  their  fathers  wrought  in  days  , 

Long-ancient  time- ward, — ^reap  what  others  sowed; 

But,  nobler,  sought  to  win  a  world  their  own,  j 

Not  conquered  by  others,  but  a  virgin  shore,  < 

Where  men  might  build  the  future;  rear  new  realms 

Of  human  effort ;  forgetful  of  the  past,  ' 

And  all  its  ill  and  failure ;  raising  anew  ^ 

The  godlike  dreams  of  genius,  knowing  only 

Immortal  possibilTty  of  man  ' 

To  grow  to  larger  vastness,  holier  dreams,  j 

Made  certain  in  straight  laws  of  human  life 

And  national  vision ;  lived  in  lofty  lives 

Of  manhood  strong  and  noblest  womanhood. 

So  thus  it  was,  and  is,  and  e'er  will  be ! 
The  ill  we  do  we  leave  behind  us  as 


THE  DISCOVERERS                            25  S 

\ 
The  phantom  cloak  of  yesterday's  sleep,  thrown  ofiE 

At  newer  waking  to  life's  splendid  dawn.  I 

So  dreamed  they,  eager,  in  those  olden  days^  ^ 

Saw  visions  in  the  future,  round  the  west  | 

Of  Europe's  fading  sunsets;  held  a  hope  i 

Of  some  new  paradise  for  poor  men's  cure  ■ 

From  despotisms  of  old  dynasties  ) 

And  cruel  iron  creeds  of  warped  despairs.  \ 
Hungering  for  light  and  truth  and  righteousness,                        '-     ' 
So  launched  they,  setting  sail  toward  sunset  verge 
Of  lonely,  inhospitable  Ocean  hurling  back 

From  his  grey  mane  sad  wrecks  of  their  desires.  \ 

We  know  their  story,  read  the  truth  where  they  j 

Knew  only  in  man's  hope  and  loftier  soul 

Which  strove  and  dared  and  greatly  overcame. 

Conquering  scorn  of  man  and  veils  of  doubt,  i 

Wresting  from  nature  half  her  secret,  cruel,  ^ 

Wherewith  she  darkens  down  in  glooms  apart 

The  mystery  of  this  planet,  where  we  sleep  \ 

And  wake  and  toil,  redeeming  high  resolves, 

Chaining  the  future  to  the  present  act. 

We  ponder  on  their  daring,  their  vast  hope,  i 

That  compassed  all  a  planet  in  its  dream. 

We  marvel  at  that  stern  defiance,  where  \ 

A  single  man,  in  a  degenerate  age,  ! 

Would  throw  the  gauntlet  down  against  a  world,  ] 

Defying  narrow  custom,  small  beliefs. 

Strangled  in  lies;  and  staking  all  on  one  ! 

Swift  certainty  of  reason,  based  on  thought. 

Which  read  from  nature,  not  from  childish  tomes  , 

Of  baseless  superstitions,  and  dared  all,  \ 

Left  the  kind  land  behind,  and  ventured  out  ^   i 

On  what  men  deemed  a  hideous  demon  waste. 


26  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

An  endless  vortex,  wherein  poor  souls  caught 
Were  swept  to  vastness,  gulfed  and  swallowed  down. 
"We  wonder  at  this  greatness,  yet  we  know 
That  thus  forever  shall  human  greatness  be, 
Man's  only  truth  in  life  to  stand  alone; 
Invincible  power  the  spirifs  solitude. 

Beneath  the  sky,  that  marvel  of  earth's  night. 

That  vast  reproof  of  all  our  littleness, 

That  shining  rebuke  to  our  unfaithfulness, 

That  scorner  of  our  despairs ;  'neath  its  dim  tent 

Of  fold  on  fold  of  fleecy  infinities; 

That  soul  of  man  is  but  a  puny  thing, 

A  fork-like  snake  in  its  own  petty  fires. 

Which  doth  not  rise  to  some  high  eminence 

Of  human  thought  and  vast  forgetfulness 

Of  all  this  common  ill  and  common  deed. 

And  loom  to  somewhat  of  that  stature,  great. 

That  God  did  dream  us!     So  those  mighty  souls. 

Watching  His  stars,  read  nightly  fixed  and  sure, 

A  certainty ;  while  every  yeasty  wave, 

A  monster  mountain,  roared  to  gulf  them  down. 

We  are  a  part  of  that  great  dream  they  dreamed. 
We  know  wherein  they  failed,  as  all  life  fails. 
We  know  the  greatness  they  could  never  dream. 
The  certainty  behind  that  sunset  veil. 
Which  lured  them  on  beyond  its  misty  verge; 
And  we  are  witness  that  their  hope  was  sure. 
And  true  and  wise  and  voice  of  God  to  men. 
We  are  the  witnesses  that  they  were  right. 
And  all  the  small  and  common  minds  were  wrong. 
The  scorners  of  their  faith,  the  laughers-down 
Of  their  sublime  enthusiasms ;  like  as  all 
Dim  ages  of  this  world  have  heard  and  seen. 


THE  DISCOVERERS  27 

Yea,  we  are  witnesses  that  they  who  hoped. 

And  greatly  planned,  and  greatly  dreamed  and  dared, 

Were  greater  and  more  godlike,  truer  souls 

And  wiser  in  their  day  than  those  who  sat 

With  shaking  head  and  shallow  platitude. 

Made  foolish  vulgar  prophecy  of  defeat ; 

Yea,  we  are  witnesses  that  one  true  man 

With  faith  in  nature,  his  own  heart  and  br.iin,  '\_ 

And  daring,  fearless,  caring  nought  for  aught, 

Save  his  own  trust  in  some  high  godlike  vision. 

Is  greater  far  than  all  a  world  of  men 

Who  are  but  shadows  of  a  worn-out  age 

Which  they  have  long  outlived;  as  rotten  trunks 

Do  mark  the  place  where  some  huge  oak  went  down. 

We  are  the  dream  which  they  did  dream ;  but  we. 

If  we  are  great  as  they  were,  likewise  know 

That  man  is  ever  onward,  outward  bound 

To  some  far  port  of  his  own  soul's  desire. 

Knowing  the  present  ever  incomplete. 

In  love's  reflection  of  the  heart's  high  goal. 

And  now  no  more  this  western  world  is  deemed 

A  home  for  liberty  and  hope's  desire. 

Men  learn  in  wisdom,  as  the  years  glide  on. 

And  life  is  ever  the  same  in  east  or  west. 

And  human  nature,  lost  in  its  own  toils 

Of  earthly  strivings,  loses  that  gold  thread 

Of  life's  sincerity,  repeating  o'er  again 

The  grim  despotic  tyrannies  of  old, 

On  newer  shores  to  freedom  dedicate 

By  loftier  souls  who  won  this  world  in  vain. 

So  is  it  ever.     Human  grief  and  ill 

And  human  tyranny  know  no  special  strand. 


28  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

All  lands  alike  to  tyrants  are  a  spoil, 

From  ills  of  race  no  continent  is  immune. 

Men  cannot  flee  old  evils  though  they  cross 

WTiole  oceans  of  surges  beating  in  between. 

We  bear  with  us  the  despot  in  our  blood: 

It  is  the  race  that  speaks  forever  in 

Our  strivings  and  our  weakness :  Nero  flames 

A  newer  Eome  in  each  new  tyranny 

Which  wakens  a  western  world  to  deeds  of  blood. 

And  we,  who  have  no  continents  new  to  find, 
No  shadowed  planet  darkening  back  our  dream, 
Who  know  the  new  world  but  the  old  world  new: 
The  same  old  evil  and  the  same  old  gleam 
In  other  guise;  but  'neath  the  same  snakehead. 
Lifting  ill  eyes  to  choke  our  visions  down 
In  monster  folds  of  human  servitude : — 
We,  too,  as  they,  are  earth's  discoverers. 
We  likewise  can  be  fixed  in  our  regard, 
We  likewise  can  be  brave,  sincere  and  true, 
Dreaming  far  peaks  of  greatness  on  ahead. 
If  we  but  strive  and  beat  our  weakness  down; 
Setting  our  sails,  invincible,  for  those  ports 
Beyond  the  common,  sheltered  shoals  of  self; 
Cleaving  with  daring  keel  those  open  seas 
Of  larger  life,  those  heaving  floors  of  hope ; 
Marking  our  course  by  those  fixed  stars  alone, 
Forever  steadfast,  witnesses  of  God. 
Pointing  to  continents  vast  of  holier  dream. 


Th^  hills  And  the  sea  2d 


The  Hills  and  the  Sea 

Give  me  the  hills  and  wide  water,  ! 

Give  me  the  heights  and  the  sea;  ; 
And  take  all  else,  'tis  living 

And  heaven  enough  for  me.  '>,  \ 

For  my  fathers  of  old  they  were  hillsmen,  j 

My  sires  they  were  sons  of  the  sea. 

Give  me  the  uplands  of  purple,  i 

The  sweep  of  the  vast  world's  rim,  \ 

Where  the  sun  dips  down,  or  the  dawnings  ] 

Over  the  earth's  edge  swim;  | 

"With  the  days  that  are  dead,  and  the  old  earth-tales,  j 
Human,  and  haunting,  and  grim. 

Give  me  where  the  great  surfs  landward  i 

Break  on  the  iron-rimmed  shore,  j 

Where  Winter  and  Spring  are  eternal,                           '  , 

And  the  miles  of  sea-sand  their  floor;  i 

Where  Wind  and  Yastness,  forever,  ; 

Walk  by  the  red  dawn's  door.  j 

I 

Back  from  this  grime  of  the  present,  \ 

This  slavery  worse  than  all  death,  i 

Let  me  stand  out  alone  on  the  highlands,  \ 

Where  there's  life  in  the  brave  wind's  breath ;  \ 

Where  the  one  wise  word  and  the  strong  word  j 

Is  the  word  that  the  great  hush  saith.  i 


30  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

TThe  Vanguard 

(To  the  Twentieth  Century) 

Out  of  the  grey  light. 
Into  the  daylight, 
We  are  His  battlemen 

Eiding  along; 
Century-laden, 
To  some  dim  aidenn, 
Hope  in  our  vanguard. 

Courage,  our  song, 
**  Check  up  the  curb,  there  !*' 
**  Firm  in  the  stirrup,  there  !'* 
"  Steady !  men,  steady !" 
"Eiding  along P 

Out  of  the  grim  light. 
Into  the  dim  light. 
Under  the  morning  airs. 

Where  the  pale  stars 
Fade  with  the  dying 
Murk  of  night  flying. 
Into  the  smoke-mists. 

Over  earth's  bars — 
Where  the  dim  sorrows 
Of  long-dead  to-morrows 
Sink  into  ashes. 

Crumble  to  night — 
Cheerfully,  gravely. 
Manfully,  bravely, 
Eide  we,  ride  we. 

Into  His  light. 


THE    VANGUARD  31 

There  was  an  Iim,  we 
Eang  to  begin,  we 
Thundered  its  rafters 

With  generous  song — 
There  a  low  mound,  we 
Left  a  brave  comrade. 
Worn  of  the  journey, 

Eiding  along. 
There  was  a  battle  fought. 
Fiercely  the  blades  rang. 
Horseman  and  charger 

Grappled  the  foe — 
Hard  spent  and  hard  hit. 
Teeth  clenched  and  foaming  bit. 
Out  of  the  battle-smoke. 

Forward  we  go. 

Bravely  faced,  bravely  won, 
Nobly  died,  nobly  done. 
Lifting  the  firm  face. 

Biding  along: 
Always  to  hillward, 
Truth  and  God-will  ward, 
Never  toward  darkness, 

Never  toward  wrong; 
Not  dumb  cattle!  men. 
We  are  God's  battlemen, 
Waging  His  fierce  fights 

Under  the  night. 
Under  the  smoke-mists. 
Through  the  dim  centuries, 
Kide  we,  ride  we. 

Into  His  light. 

Hold  up  the  head,  there  I 
Quicker  the  tread,  there  I 


3i  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Eyes  on  the  mountain  heights  I 

Lift  the  old  song! 
"  Bravely  the  right  goes, 
**  Down  with  the  dread  foes, 
"  Evil  and  sorrow, 

"  Hate  and  old  wrong ! 
"  Doubt  but  the  battle-smoke, 
"  Dusk  but  the  morning's  cloak, 
*'  Care  and  despairing  but 

"  Dreams  of  the  night ; 
*'  Eoll  the  grey  mists  up ! 
"  Drain  deep  the  dawn-cup ! 
*'  Eide  we,  ride  we, 

"Into  His  light!" 

Old  men  and  young  men. 
Cheering  the  faint  ones, 
Bearing  the  weak  ones. 

Chiding  the  strong; 
Over  the  dead  past. 
Ice-cold,  furnace-blast, 

Eiding  along; 
We  are  His  valiant  hearts. 
Wending  His  journey  dread. 
Eyes  to  the  hills  ahead. 

Hearken  our  song: — 
"  Watch  for  His  dawning !  mark, 
"  Sorrow  but  the  shrivelled  bark, 
*'  Love  the  white  kernel  sap ; 

"  Hatred  and  wrong, 
"  But  the  fierce,  sudden  hail, 
"  Battling  our  iron  mail, 

"Eiding  along/' 

Yea,  as  we  thunder,  we 
Know  earth's  old  wonder,  we 


THE   VANGUARD  S3 

Feel  all  about  us 

Her  splendor  and  tears;  i 
Her  might  and  her  glory. 

Her  centuried  story,  .j 
Her  weird,  blind  caravan 

Down  the  dead  years. 

Her  grief  and  her  wisdom,  j 

Her  heart-breaks  and  yearning,  -^'l 

Her  legends  of  iron-eaten,  ; 

Blood-crusted  wars: —  \ 

Her  loves  and  despairings,  \ 

"Wrecks  of  old  dynasties,  j 
Barbarous;  splendid  and 

Old  as  the  stars : — •  ! 

They  who  look  down  on  iis,  j 

Cold  in  their  far-light,  \ 

Orient,  mystical,  \ 

Under  the  night;  \ 

Weird  in  their  silence,  \ 

Grim,  fixed  witnesses,  j 

Long,  of  earth's  struggles,  j 

Her  great  grim  graveyards,  \ 

Of  passion  and  might.  ; 

But  under  we  thunder,  ■'■' 

Charge,  battle,  and  blunder,  \ 

Out  of  the  night-mists,  i 

Unto  the  day,  ; 

Led  by  an  impulse,  ■ 

A  fierce  joy  and  heart-hope,  i 

Older  and  stronger  I 

And  greater  than  they.  j 

Sound  the  clear  bugle,  there!  j 

Wide,  let  the  summons  blare!  ' 

Challenge  the  centuries,  ( 

Fearless  of  wrong! 


U  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL  '  \ 

Bury  that  dead  face!  j 

Strong  heart,  fill  his  place  I  J 

Tenderly,  manfully,  ■ 

Eiding  along!  \ 

Eyes  to  the  right,  ahead!  J 

Grim  be  the  way  we  tread,  ; 
Sound  down  the  silence,  murk, 

Hope's  golden  horn !  j 
Sweet,  sweet !  silver  clear ! 
Challenging  despair  and  fear; 

Though  life  be  at  its  neap,  \ 

Death  is  but  the  morning  sleep,  j 

Ere  day  be  born.  \ 

'1 
Close  up  amain,  there! 

Curb  on  that  rein,  there!  1 

Eyes  hniward  and  Godward,  \ 

Forging  ahead !  ] 

Down  the  dread  journey,  1 

Flashing  the  stern  eye,  j 

Out  on  dim  iron-peaks  i 

Lifetimes  ahead! 
Searching  the  night-line. 
Murk's  fading  white  line. 
For  the  dawn's  message, 

For  the  dajr's  red ; 
Sinking  old  sorrows 

In  nobler  to-morrows,  \ 

Ringing  the  levin  1 

With  earth's  battle-song;  ] 

Hugging  the  after  \ 

Tears  of  old  laughter,  \ 

Hopeward  and  Godward,  i 

Eiding  along.  i 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  35 

Eyes  to  the  front,  there! 
Iron  'gainst  the  brunt,  there! 
Jarring  the  battle-shock. 

Under  the  night; 
From  earth's  weird  wonder. 
We  thunder,  we  thunder. 
Out  from  the  centuries' 

Battle  and  blight; 
Clear,  clear,  our  bugles,  clear, 
Challenging  despair  and  fear, 
Eide  we,  ride  we. 

Into  His  light. 


Commemoration  Ode 

(Cambridge,  June,  1905) 

Brothers  in  action,  aspiration,  aim, 
Co-heritors  of  that  old  breed,  old  blood. 
That  ancient  speech,  that  ancient  faith  and  song  ;- 
Once  more  we  stand  in  these  memorial  halls. 
And  meet  in  kind  communion,  as  of  yore 
Those  sun-filled  hours  of  youth's  Hyperion  morn. 
When  life's  great  future  blinded  eager  eyes. 
And  ways  of  vague  achievement  lay  before. 
With  golden  roadways  leading  on  to  fame 
Or  other  portals  of  Hope's  azure  vision 
Beyond  the  mists  of  aspiration's  dream. 

Once  more  we  meet  here  with  our  tithe  of  lore. 
Or  dearly  earned  experience  of  this  world. 
And  all  its  mystery  of  blinded  ways ; — 
And  here  we  face  the  future ;  nearer  now 
3 


36  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

That  last  dread  culmination  of  our  days, 
That  solemn  gate  of  earth's  departing  scene, 
Where  love  and  patience  lay  their  burdens  down. 
Here  at  life's  mid-day  mile-stone  do  we  stand. 
Knowing  our  vision  greater  than  our  act, 
Our  possibility  vaster  than  our  dream. 

Greater  than  all  earth's  woven  creeds  is  that 
Eternal  possibility  of  man 
To  rise  to  nobler  futures,  loftier  peaks 
Of  golden  sunrise  visions,  climbing  on 
To  those  vast  vistas  of  the  ideal  man. 

Learning  is  nature's  kindred  spirit.     She 
Holds  up  the  torch  to  reason,  seeking  ever 
That  holy,  immortal,  changeless  face  of  Truth. 
Language  may  falter,  palter,  lose  her  old 
Plain  utterance,  simple,  pure  and  undefiled ; — 
But  upward  still  is  upward,  straight  is  straight. 
And  narrow  the  way  and  hard  the  paths  to  God, 

Not  all  the  weight  of  vast  material  power. 
The  brazen  frown,  the  iron  hand  of  wealth, 
Can  make  the  ill  less  evil;  or  the  good 
A  part  of  evil.     Still  midway  will  stand 
That  sword  of  Eden  flaming  in  between. 
Whence  man  came  naked,  naked  will  return. 
Clothed  only  in  the  truth  of  heart  and  brain. 

There  is  no  complex  where  thp  spirit  rules. 
The  truth  is  simple  as  the  perfect  curve 
Of  elemental  beauty.    Life  no  lie, 
Till  man  did  build  a  fence  to  shut  out  God, 
And  hide  with  hideous  tapestries  the  stars. 


COMMEMORATION  ODE  37 

Those  endless,  gobelin  questionings  shiit  in 
Man's  soul  from  the  eternal.     Out  beyond, 
Where  night  and  vasts  anticipate  the  dawn, 
No  muflBed  doubt  goes  groping,  where  those  hosts. 
Immortal,  radiant,  wheel  their  mystic  fires, 
Orion,  and  the  ancient  Pleiades. 

Think  not  because  we  lose  the  road,  that  we 
Are  lost  eternal.    Still  the  road  shines  on. 
Through  murky  mists  of  this  grim  modem  dream. 
These  smokes,  material,  shrouding  His  vast  plan. 
And  still  a  child-face  teaches  beaut/s  truth; 
A  wayside  blossom  still  remains  a  flower; 
And  love,  and  hate  of  evil  rule  the  world. 
This  shining  roadway  holds  no  cul-de-sac. 
Though  close  the  gorges  seem  to  hem  us  in. 
With  human  finality,  reason's  narrow  bounds, 
Within  these  hopeless  mountains  of  the  mind. 

And  often  'mid  the  anguish  and  turmoil 

Of  all  this  fevered  being,  I  have  felt 

A  sudden  flame  of  some  large  knowledge,  flashed. 

And  then  withdrawn  from  out  my  spirit's  ken; 

As  though  God  opened  His  vast  doors  of  light 

And  outward  being.    Then  my  soul  hath  felt 

Some  mystic  glimpse  of  far  infinity. 

As  though  there  flamed  a  world  outside  our  world, 

Beyond  this  prison  house  of  all  our  tears. 

This  finite  cell  that  we  inhabit  here. 

And  in  that  sudden  light  it  seemed  as  if 
This  house  of  sadness,  these  grim  narrow  streets. 
This  blinded  search  from  shrivelled  day  to  day. 
And  all  that  past  which  memory  intervenes. 


38            POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL  \ 

This  hourly  round  of  earth's  experience,  ! 

This  opening  up  of  vistas  of  life's  days  i 

And  months  and  years,  had  all  been  lived  before,  ; 

And  this  grim  present  but  old  dreams  re-dreamed.  j 

So  moves  life's  mystery,  as  though  fold  in  fold,  \ 
Of  sense  'neath  sense,  like  sleep  which  mantles  dream.        i 

Man's  gross  heredity  muffles  in  his  soul  \ 
From  somewhat  larger,  mightier,  some  far  vast. 
As  mists  material  curtain  out  God's  stars. 

^ 

For  life  is  greater  than  its  mightiest  deeds,  "j 

And  we,  than  this  environment,  wherein  we  dwell,  | 

This  mansion,  vast,  of  failure,  where  the  winds  < 

Of  youth's  far  longings  haunt  these  banquet  halls  j 

Of  deeds  unfinished,  broken  pillars  of  faith,  J 

And  ruined  stairways  leading  to  the  stars.  ■ 

This,  Brothers,  is  my  message:  Let  us  keep  \ 

The  olden  faith  in  glad  sincerity,  I 

Eemembering  ever,  simplicity  is  the  truth;  1 
Eeligion  reverence;  wisdom  but  to  keep 

Those  dread  eternal  laws  which  guide  the  world.  ; 

Forgetting  not  our  duty  to  the  race,  i 
From  which  our  sires  and  our  great-grandsires  sprang ; 
That  mighty  stock,  that  iron  heredity. 

Uncompromising,  stem,  which  planted  deep  \ 

The  holy  roots  of  that  wide  tree  which  bore  1 

This  blossom  of  liberty  which  we  pluck  to-day.  \ 

Which  taught  us,  what  we  all  too  soon  forget,  ] 

No  earthly  generation  stands  alone,  I 

But  is  the  link  in  some  vast  mystic  chain  \ 

Extending  downward  from  the  ancient  days.  j 


THE  DREAMERS  39 

Remembering  that  allegiance  which  we  owe 
The  blood  we  bear,  the  tongue  our  fathers  forged 
From  out  the  rude  and  barbarous  dreams  of  those 
Who  gave  us  primal  being.    This  our  work. 
To  build,  to  weld,  replenish,  and  subdue. 

N'ot  like  blind  force  which  treads  this  earth  like  iron. 
And  makes  the  continents  tremble;  not  by  greed, 
Or  grim  political  craft ;  but  by  that  power. 
That  sad  sincerity  of  the  Perfect  Man. 

Yea,  this,  my  message !    Life  is  short  and  stem. 
And  ours  at  best  a  feeble,  cabined  will. 
Our  mind  is  finite : — But  the  soul  of  man. 
Which  hopes  and  trembles,  suffers  and  aspires. 
Rebukes  his  pettier  moments ;  its  vast  dreams 
Proclaim  our  origin  high,  our  destiny  great. 
And  possibilities  limitless  like  the  sea. 


The  Dreamers 

(A    Parable.) 

They  lingered  on  the  middle  heights 
Betwixt  the  brown  earth  and  the  heaven; 

They  whispered,  "  We  are  not  the  night's. 
But  pallid  children  of  the  even." 

They  muttered,  "We  are  not  the  da/s. 
For  the  old  struggle  and  endeavor. 

The  rugged  and  unquiet  ways. 

Are  dead  and  driven  past  forever." 

They  dreamed  upon  the  cricket's  tune. 

The  winds  that  stirred  the  withered  grasses; 


40  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  never  saw  the  blood-red  moon. 
That  lit  the  spectre  mountain-passes. 

They  sat  and  marked  the  brooklet  steal 
In  smoke-mist  o'er  its  silvered  surges: 

But  marked  not,  with  its  peal  on  peal. 
The  storm  that  swept  the  granite  gorges. 

They  dreamed  the  shimmer  and  the  shade. 
And  sought  in  pools  for  haunted  faces: 

Nor  heard  again  the  cannonade 

In  dreams  from  earth's  old  battle-places. 

They  spake,  "  The  ages  all  are  dead, 
The  strife,  the  struggle  and  the  glory; 

We  are  the  silences  that  wed 

Betwixt  the  story  and  the  story. 

*'We  are  the  little  winds  that  moan 

Between  the  woodlands  and  the  meadows. 

We  are  the  ghosted  leaves,  wind-blown 
Across  the  gust-light  and  the  shadows." 

Then  came  a  soul  across  those  lands. 

Whose  face  was  all  one  glad,  rapt  wonder ; 

And  spake :  "  The  skies  are  ribbed  with  bands 
Of  fire,  and  heaven  all  racked  with  thunder. 

"  Climb  up  and  see  the  glory  spread. 
High  over  cliff  and  'scarpment  yawning: 

The  night  is  past,  the  dark  is  dead, 
Behold  the  triumph  of  the  dawning  !'* 

Then  laughed  they  with  a  wistful  scorn, 
"  You  are  a  ghost,  a  long-dead  vision ; 

You  passed  by  ages  ere  was  born 
This  twilight  of  the  days  elysian. 


THE  DREAMERS  41 

"  There  is  no  hope,  there  is  no  strife, 
But  only  haunted  hearts  that  hunger. 

About  a  dead,  scarce  dreamed-of  life. 
Old  ages  when  the  earth  was  younger." 

Then  came  by  one  in  mad  distress : 

"  Haste,  haste  below,  where  strong  arms  weaken, 
The  fighting  ones  grow  less  and  less ! 

Great  cities  of  the  world  are  taken  I 

"  Dread  evil  rolls  by  like  a  flood. 

Men's  bones  beneath  his  surges  whiten. 

Go  where  the  ages  mark  in  blood 

The  footsteps  that  their  days  enlighten/' 

Still  they  but  heard,  discordant  mirth. 
The  thin  winds  through  the  dead  stalks  rattle ; 

While  out  from  far-off  haunts  of  earth 
There  smote  the  mighty  sound  of  battle. 

Now  there  was  heard  an  awful  cry. 
Despair  that  reddened  heaven  asunder, 

White  pauses  when  a  cause  would  die. 

Where  love  was  lost  and  souls  went  under. 

The  while  these  feebly  dreamed  and  talked 
Betwixt  the  brown  earth  and  the  heaven, 

Faint  ghosts  of  men  who  breathed  and  walked, 
But  deader  than  the  dead  ones  even. 

And  out  there  on  the  middle  height 

They  sought  in  pools  for  haunted  faces, 

Nor  heard  the  cry  across  the  night, 

That  swept  from  earth's  dread  battle-places. 


42  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Lyre  Degenerate 

The  literatvire  of  the  soul  of  nature  as  found  in  the  great  poets  is 
inspiring ;  but  the  decadent  worship  of  beast,  gnat  and  straddle-bug  in 
the  animal  story  and  the*  artificial  nature- verse  of  to-day  is  degrading. 
It  is  time  that  men  of  thought  and  spirit  regenerate  the  world  of 
America  from  its  present  materialistic  slough  with  its  consequent 
superficial  cult  of  neo-paganism. 

Vanished  the  golden  Homer, 

Vanished  the  great  god  Pan, 
Vanished  the  mighty  mind  of  Greece, 

The  ancient  visions  of  man. 

Gone  are  the  mighty  moderns. 

Hands  that  swept  the  keys, 
That  ran  the  splendid  gamut  of  dream. 

Of  life's  deep  harmonies. 

Dead  are  the  lofty  dreamers. 

The  true  and  the  wise  of  earth. 
Who  stirred  the  spirits  of  yearning  men 

And  gave  new  impulse  birth. 

No  more  those  ladders  to  heaven, 

Golden  rung  upon  rung 
Of  the  lofty  deed  and  the  splendid  dream 

In  the  song  of  singers  is  sung; — 

For  now  in  the  shrunken  pages 

Of  helot  dreamers  of  song 
The  idiot  children  of  primal  earth, 

Brute  and  insect,  throng. 


And  this  the  end  of  beauty. 
The  ultimate  dreaming  of  man, 


THE  LYRE  DEGENERATE  43 

To  shrink  to  this  hideous,  meaningless  cult. 
Alas,  for  the  great  god  Panl 

Alas,  for  the  lore  of  sages ! 

Alas,  for  the  Parthenon! 
Alas,  for  the  yearning  Israelite 

His  mountains  of  woe  upon  I 

After  the  mind  of  Shakespeare, 

After  the  soul  of  Christ, 
To  sink  to  the  level  of  hoof  and  paw, 

To  keep  this  hideous  tryst; 

Lost  to  that  higher,  holier  thought 

Under  this  latter-day  gleam. 
Living  again  in  the  mind  of  the  beast 

An  earlier,  dreader  dream. 

Sunk  to  the  law  of  the  jungle  and  fen 
From  the  dream  of  the  godlike  man. 

To  learn  in  the  lore  of  reptile  and  brute 
The  cunning  of  Caliban. 

And  this  the  end  of  the  ages'  art 

The  world's  high  yearning  pain. 
To  trace  the  trail  of  the  serpent  and  ^^'^ 

On  the  monster  earth  again. 

To  know  eternity  howl  and  yelp. 

The  primal  instinct's  dream; 
To  bask  in  the  sun  or  curl  in  the  dusk 

Of  an  arctic  moonlight's  gleam. 

Yea,  better  than  all  this  age  can  give, 

Eather  our  lowest  our  least; 
Better  to  sin  as  men  and  women 

Than  sink  to  the  best  of  the  beast. 


44  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Better  than  live  in  this  hideous  round 

Of  claw  and  beak  and  wing. 
Better  the  dread  eternal  black 

Of  death's  eternal  ring. 

And  Thou  who  ^rt  of  all  things  Lord, 

By  whom  all  perish  or  dream, 
Who  wakest  the  flower,  the  star,  the  love, 

The  mighty  world  or  the  gleam; 

Who  after  sad  winter  wakest  the  rose. 

After  midnight  the  dawn. 
By  whose  dread  word  the  children  of  earth 

Up  thy  mountains  have  gone; 

Teach  me  the  lesson  that  Mother  Earth 
Teacheth  her  children  each  hour, 

When  she  keeps  in  her  deeps  the  basic  root. 
And  wears  on  her  breast  the  flower. 

And  as  the  brute  to  the  basic  root 

In  the  infinite  cosmic  plan. 
So  in  the  plan  of  the  infinite  mind 

The  flower  of  the  brute  is  man; — • 

Man  who  blossoms  in  beauty  and  love 
And  wisdom's  wondrous  bloom, 

And  climbs  by  spiral  stairways  dread 
To  the  dawn  of  the  world's  great  doom. 

And  when  doth  come  that  marvelous  change, 
Thou  Master  of  being  and  death, 

0  let  me  die  as  the  great  dead  died, 
Not  passing  of  instinct's  breath; — 


WORK  45  J 

Let  me  lie  down  with  a  loftier  thought  ; 

Than  passing  of  beast  and  leaf,  ' 

That  the  cry  of  human  soul  for  soul  I 

Is  greater  than  nature's  grief;  j 

That  man  is  nearer  the  mountains  of  God  j 

Than  in  those  ages  when  j 

He  slept  the  sleep  of  the  tiger  and  fox,  ^  ' 
And  woke  to  the  strife  of  the  den. 

And  when  from  the  winter  of  thy  wild  death  ' 

Thine  angels  of  sunlight  call ;  ] 

"Waken  me  unto  my  highest,  my  best,  | 

Or  waken  me  not  at  all.  I 


Work 

To  thy  work,  heart  that  aches. 
To  thy  souFs  best  work. 

Let  not  the  bitter  hour 
Stab  with  its  grim  dirk. 

Unto  thy  toil;  and  if  the  world 
Want  not  thy  voice  to-day. 

Grieve  not,  thine  hour  will  come. 
Love  is  not  waste  alway. 

Art  that  grows  from  love 
Of  beauty,  life's  high  dream. 

Will  not  utterly  vanish  out. 
As  weed-drift  on  a  stream. 

Not  one  sunbeam  is  lost. 
Though  it  vanish  in  a  cave. 

And  He,  great  Master  of  Mystery, 
Will  redeem  the  gift  He  gave. 


46  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Blind  Caravan 

I  AM  a  slave,  both  dumb  and  blind. 

Upon  a  journey  dread; 
The  iron  hills  lie  far  behind, 

The  seas  of  mist  ahead. 

Amid  a  mighty  caravan 

I  toil  a  sombre  track, 
The  strangest  road  since  time  began. 

Where  no  foot  turneth  back. 

Here  rosy  youth  at  morning's  prime 

And  weary  man  at  noon 
Are  crooked  shapes  at  eventirae 

Beneath  the  haggard  moon. 

Faint  elfin  songs  from  out  the  past 

Of  some  lost  sunset  land 
Haunt  this  grim  pageant  drifting,  vast. 

Across  the  trackless  sand. 

And  often  for  some  nightward  wind 

We  stay  a  space  and  hark. 
Then  leave  the  sunset  lands  behind. 

And  plunge  into  the  dark. 

Somewhere,  somewhere,  far  on  in  front, 

There  strides  a  lonely  man 
Who  is  all  strength,  who  bears  the  brunt, 

The  battle  and  the  ban. 

I  know  not  of  his  face  or  form. 
His  voice  or  battle-scars. 


THE  BUND  CARAVAN  47 

Or  how  he  fronts  the  haunted  storm 
Beneath  the  wintry  stars; 

I  know  not  of  his  wisdom  great 

That  leads  this  sightless  host 
Beyond  the  barren  lulls  of  fate 

Unto  some  kindlier  coast. 

But  often  'mid  the  eerie  black 

Through  this  sad  caravan 
A  strange,  sweet  thrill  is  whispered  back. 

Borne  on  from  man  to  man. 

A  strange,  glad  joy  that  fills  the  night 

Like  some  far  marriage  horn. 
Till  every  heart  is  filled  with  light 

Of  some  belated  mom. 

The  way  is  long,  and  rough  the  road. 

And  bitter  the  night,  and  dread. 
And  each  poor  slave  is  but  a  goad 

To  lash  the  one  ahead. 

Evil  the  foes  that  lie  in  wait 

To  slay  us  in  the  pass. 
Bloody  the  slaughter  at  the  gate. 

And  bleak  the  wild  morass; 

And  I  am  but  a  shriveled  thing 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky; 
A  wasted,  wan  remembering 

Of  days  long  wandered  by. 

And  yet  I  lift  my  sightless  face 

Toward  the  eerie  light. 
And  tread  the  lonely  way  we  trace 

Across  the  haunted  night. 


48  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Ode  to  the  Laurentian  Hills 

Blue  hills,  elusive,  far  and  dim. 

You  lift  so  high  beyond  our  care; 
Where  earth's  horizon  seems  to  swim. 

You  dream  in  loftier  air. 

Here  where  our  world  wends  day  by  day 

Its  sad,  material  round. 
We  know  not  of  that  purer  ray  '. 

By  which  your  heights  are  bound.  ; 

Ignoble  thoughts,  ignoble  aims  \ 

Shut  us  from  that  high  heaven ;  | 

Those  dawning  dreams,  those  sunset  flames,  \ 

With  which  your  peaks  are  riven.  j 

You  seem  so  lone  and  bleak,  so  vast  • 

Beneath  your  dome  of  sky,  ; 

So  patient  to  the  heat  or  blast 

That  smites  or  hurtles  by:  i 

\ 
So  vague,  withdrawn  in  mists,  remote,  \ 

Shut  out  in  glories  wide ;  j 

The  very  fleecy  clouds  that  float,  < 

Your  dreamings  seem  to  hide.  j 

We  in  our  plots  of  circumstance 

Are  prisoners  of  a  grim  despair; 
While  your  far  shining  shoulders  glance 

From  heights  where  all  things  dare.  i 

Cc"  M  we  from  out  this  cloak  of  glooms  •     \ 

That  prisons  and  oppresses,  \ 

But  reach  those  large,  sky-bounded  rooms  ! 
Of  your  divine  recesses ; 


THE  ART  DIVINE  49 

Then  might  we  find  that  godlike  calm,  | 

That  peace  that  holdeth  you,  ] 

That  soars  like  wordless  prayer  or  psalm  l 

To  heaven  with  your  blue.  \ 

Then  might  we  know  that  silent  power. 

That  patience,  that  supreme  ■ 
Indifference  to  day  and  hour                                                    ^ 

Of  your  eternal  dream.  j 

Then  might  we  lose,  in  fire  and  dew  I 

Of  your  pellucid  airs,  ^ 

This  diffidence  to  dare  and  do,  \ 
That  grovels  and  despairs. 

And  dream  once  more  that  high  desire. 

That  greatness  dead  and  gone. 

When  earth's  winged  eagles  eyed  the  fire  I 

Your  sunrise  peaks  upon.                                              •  ' 

That  power  serene,  life's  vasts  to  scan, 

Beyond  earth's  futile  tears ;  J 

Her  hopes,  her  curse,  the  bliss,  the  ban  I 

Of  all  her  anguished  years.  j 


The  Art  Divine 

That  Artist  of  the  Universe 

Behind  the  wind  and  rain 
Hath  drawn  a  dream  of  splendid  death 

Across  my  window  pane. 

And  in  the  lonely,  haunted  day. 

My  luminous  maple  tree 
Hath  now  assumed  the  magic  pomp 

Of  some  weird  pageantry. 


50            POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL  i 

And  'mid  the  common  day  and  thought,  I 

My  casement  to  me  brings 

A  picture  rarer  than  all  art  \ 

Of  man's  imaginings.  ; 

Not  all  the  wondrous  hues  of  "Watts, 

Not  Turnei^s  wizard  scheme, 
With  all  its  mastery,  haunts  my  heart 

Like  this  autumnal  dream;  i 

For  o'er  my  sill,  all  life,  all  death,  \ 

All  moods  life,  death  can  name,  < 

Press  on  me  from  that  magic  frieze  i 

Of  earth's  funereal  flame.  i 


Day  and  Night 

Two  dreams  forever  pass  my  door. 
One  gaudy,  one  in  sombre  dress: 

The  Day,  one  weird  and  endless  roar; 
The  Night,  a  million  silences. 

To  one  I  give,  the  slave  I  am. 
My  curse  of  being,  fevered  breath; 

The  other,  'mid  her  godlike  calm. 
Lifts  me  to  dwell  with  Death. 


My  Creed 

This  is  my  creed  in  face  of  cynic  sneer. 
The  cavilling  doubt,  the  pessimistic  fear; — 
We  come  from  some  far  greatness,  and  we  go 
Back  to  a  greatness,  spite  of  all  our  woe. 


SLEEP  61 


Responsibility  j 

Man  is  not  evil  when  he  stands  alone,  \ 

'Tis  in  the  aggregate  he  loses  truth, 

And  builds  him  up  life's  weakness  by  his  ruth.  ^    \ 

No  single  conscience  makes  its  brother  moan,  '\ 
The  slaving  toiler  withered  to  the  bone. 

The  wasting  age  ere  life  hath  garnered  youth ; —  i 

No  single  soul  hath  done  this;  each  and  all,  '\ 

We  add  a  pebble  to  a  mighty  wall  ; 

That  shuts  this  world  from  freedom  and  God's  truth. 


Sleep  ■ 

Sweet,  brief  condition  of  oblivion, 

Easer  of  care-worn  mind  and  sorrowed  soul;  ; 

Yea,  next  to  death,  God's  most  compassionate  gift.  \ 

Thou  art  that  short  mortality  wherein  men  : 

Give  over  their  spirits  to  omnipotence,  ^ 

That  sea  of  faith  whereon  men  launch  their  barks,  \ 

Undoubting  of  the  hope  of  their  return,  | 

And  float  on  opiate  airs  and  favoring  gales  ; 

Out  to  some  land  beyond  these  realms  of  earth,  i 

And  all  its  sad  dominion,  aching  chain,  j 

That  gnaws  men's  vitals  festering  day  by  day.  \ 

The  king,  the  galley-slave  are  equal  here,  \ 

The  sinner  and  the  saint  alike  have  peace,  ] 

A  short  forgetting  of  the  angered  hour,  i 

The  poisoned  memory,  or  the  woe  to  be.  | 

4  \ 


52  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Within  thy  mighty  halls  of  phantasy 
Thine  opiate  silence  hangs  its  curtain  black. 
And  ever  the  hideous  dream  is  but  a  dream. 

'Tis  sweet  to  rise  to  greet  the  kindling  morn, 
When  all  is  happiness,  holy,  glad  and  well  :— 
But  to  the  agonized  spirit,  life's  remorse. 
Time's  prisoners  of  failure,  earth's  defeat, 
'Tis  agony  to  wake,  to  meet  the  sun. 
For  these,  0  kind  Magician,  thou  most  true. 
Give  these,  life's  weary,  woe's  poor  suffering  ones, 
Earth's  mightiest  blessing,  dream-compelling  sleep. 


Sleep 

Dim  Sleep,  that  keep'st  the  soul  in  awe. 

By  gates  that  lead  to  the  unknown: — 

All  life  sways  to  thy  magic  law. 

All  portals  open  toward  thy  throne; — 

Thou  arbiter  in  ebon  stone, 

A  mist  about  thee  ever  thrown. 

Thou  peoplest  the  dark  with  visions  filled, 
Thou  breathest  with  thy  poppied  breath, 
And  all  the  loves  of  life  are  stilled 
Unto  similitude  of  death. 


THE   QUESTION                              63  ' 

'1 
1 

\ 
The  Question 

I.  ; 

Have  we  come  to  the  outermost  wall 

Of  this  terrible  temple  of  time,  : 

To  find  it  but  iron  after  all, 

A  horrible  gaol  of  the  soul,  j 

A  prison  whose  walls  are  a  shard 

Of  cold,  implacable  fact;  ; 

^^Hiere,  through  the  dim  centuries  gone,  1 

The  poor  weak  eons  of  men  j 

Have  circled  in  bubbles  of  joy,  ' 

To  find  but  a  shroud  of  despair,  ; 

Cabined  and  crushed  at  the  last  ?  ] 

And  this :  Is  this  but  the  end  ?  J 

Have  we  fathomed  the  secret  in  vain?  '. 
Was  man  but  a  last  blind  coil 

Of  the  brute  evolution  of  time,  ■ 

Unwinding  itself  in  the  dark?  ' 

Or  the  full-blown  rose  of  a  race,  \ 

Whose  scent  and  whose  petals  are  gone?  4 

Was  the  law:  Aspire  till  ye  die,  i 

For  ye  die  when  ye  cease  to  aspire  ?  " 

Is  it  true,  we  have  fathomed  the  dark,  ■ 

Probed  the  deeps  to  the  edge  of  the  black,  •, 

Till  the  fiat  goes  forth.  Ye  are  done?  ! 
Is  it  all  ?     And  beyond  it,  what  next  ? 

Doth  there  glimmer  the  thread  of  a  dawn?  ; 


64  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

II.  j 

God!  « 

We  utter  the  sound  of  a  word,  ' 

And  power  dissolves  into  nought,  ■ 

And  vanity  crumbles  in  dust;  I 

We,  who  have  reached  the  bare  wall,  i 

Have  fathomed  ^his  prison  of  dark,  ! 

Stand  naked  in  awe  of  a  name.  j 

We,  who  have  balanced  the  "  all,"  i 
Weighed  the  dreams  of  the  past  in  a  scale. 

And  found  them  but  vanishing  dust;  \ 

Here  in  the  end  of  the  days;  \ 

In  this  last  high  poise  of  a  stair,  1 
Built  out  of  the  quarries  of  thought, 

Wrought  slow  in  the  workhouse  of  truth,  : 

Our  knowledge  and  wisdom  all  gone;  \ 

Like  children  all  frighted  and  shamed,  , 

Stand  in  awe  at  the  sound  of  a  name;  | 

As  hosts,  that  huddled  at  night,  ] 

From  the  rude  cruel  riot  of  rout,  \ 

Stay,  fearful  and  doubting,  dismayed,  J 

'Mid  the  grim,  unknowable  dark,  i 

For  the  glad,  kind  trumpet  that  calls  i 

From  the  far,  white  comfort  of  dawn.  \ 

So  we,  who  dreamed  that  we  scaled 

The  high  white  mountains  of  thought;  I 

From  our  ruined  Babel  of  pride,  i 

In  the  knowledge  of  self  and  of  God ;  \ 

Turn  back  from  the  jargon  of  tongues,  j 

That  scoff  and  clamor  and  cry. 

To  the  wonder  and  awe  of  the  child ;  \ 

And  plead  in  our  weakness  and  doubt,  . 

At  the  barriers,  muffled,  of  dark. 

That  reach  through  the  spaces  of  thought 

To  the  far-off  vastness  of  God.  i 


THE  QUESTION  66 

III. 

To  the  end?    Have  we  really  begun? 
Have  we  yet  even  entered  that  gate. 
That  one  wicket  gate  of  the  soul. 
Which  leads  to  the  city  of  life? 
That  we  say,  we  have  come  to  the  wall ; 
That  we  grope,  like  the  blind,  in  the  dark. 
For  the  slow  closing  in  of  the  walls 
Of  this  grim  torture-prison  of  life. 
Where  casement  on  casement  fades  out. 
Till  the  last  narrow  pane  disappears 
On  the  coffined  despair  of  the  soul. 
And  the  narrow  iron  shard  echoes  back 
The  unseen  executioner's  stroke? 

Is  this  but  the  end  and  the  all. 
The  blind,  grim  climax  of  time? 
Is  God  but  necessities'  will. 
Where  chance  for  an  eon  pursues 
The  rhythmic  returns  of  a  force? 
Or  a  flame  that  flickers  one  way? 
Or  a  huge  grim  hammer  that  beats 
All  out  on  the  anvil  of  time; 
All  out,  till  the  echoes  repeat 
Each  cavemed  black  edge  of  the  void? 

And  this  trembling  flame  of  the  soul. 
In  its  hollow-built  shard  of  the  skull, 
That  flashes,  then  flickers  and  dies? 

What  of  it?    So  fickle,  so  dim, 
A  candle-dip  spark  in  the  space; 
That  it  measures  the  infinite  void. 
That  it  yearns  to  fill  all  with  its  hope. 
Its  love,  its  desire,  and  its  dream, 
That  would  grow  to  the  stature  of  God? 


s 


58            POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL  ■ 

'i 

What  is  it?    So  mystically  small;  i 

So  infinite,  vast  in  its  aim;  j 

So  great  in  its  yearning  and  growth;  j 

It  would  leap  to  the  light  of  the  stars,  1 

Would  sound  the  abysses  of  space,  \ 

And  measure  the  span  of  the  worlds  ?  \ 

I 

Those  magical  windows  it  throws  -\ 

Open  wide  to  the  wonders  of  life. 

That  sympathy  subtler  than  thought,  ; 

This  subconscious  dreaming  that  doubts 

If  waking  be  nightmare  to  sleep. 

That  leads  to  the  real  hidden  world. 

That  world  whose  wonder  pursues 

Even  here  in  this  prison  of  time,  - 

When  the  walls  of  this  earth  crumble  down,  ' 

And  the  veils  of  the  senses  grow  thin,  \ 

That  shut  from  the  realms  beyond.  ' 

i 

This  hearing  so  delicate,  fine,  ] 

This  exquisite  sense  of  the  chords  \ 

Beaten  out  from  the  fibres  of  sound.  \ 

The  magical  world  of  the  eye,  \ 

That  catches  all  colors,  all  blends  ; 

Of  mystical  morning  and  night.  J 

Weird  memory,  wove  of  all  hints  | 

Of  the  marvelous  dreams  of  the  past.  . 

Strange  thought,  that  probes  ocean  and  land,  | 

Man's  soul,  and  the  infinite  void,  \ 

Builds  the  future,  illumines  the  past,  j 

Measures,  weighs,  judges,  pardons,  and  damns.  \ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS  67  \ 

Governs  hearing,  sight,  memory,  all;  | 

Lord-Seer  of  all  gates  of  delight;  ; 
Standing  out  on  the  mountains  of  dream. 

Then,  greater  than  all,  even  love. 

That  yearns  through  the  eons  of  time,  j 

That  throbs  through  the  hates  and  despairs,  \ 

Built  out  of  the  passions  of  men;  \ 

Yea,  this  above  all,  leavens  all,  <    ■ 

Filters  down  through  the  roots  of  the  world,  ^  ' 

To  the  dry,  hidden  heart  of  all  things, 

"Waters  all  deserts  of  drought,  \ 

Spears  million  meadows  with  green,  j 

Up-burgeons  all  blossom  and  fruit.  • 


The  House  of  Dreams  , 

'Mid  all  earth's  mighty  builders,  j 

That  ancient  builder.  Time,  j 

Laughs  at  the  art  that  crumbles  1 
And  the  airy  arts  of  rhyme. 

But  the  story  of  godlike  passion,  ! 

The  mighty  hate  or  desire. 

Lives,  when  the  hand  that  penned  it  \ 

Is  ruin  with  Sidon  and  Tyre.  J 

Greater  than  all  earth's  temples,  ' 

Glories  of  art's  high  goal,  I 

Is  the  mystical,  magical  temple 

That  God  built  for  the  soul.  ' 


58  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Not  in  a  day  or  hour, 

Not  in  a  thousand  years. 
He  hath  fashioned,  for  love  to  dwell  in, 

A  temple  of  prayers  and  tears. 

'Tis  the  dream  and  not  the  deed 
That  doth,  eternal,  endure; 

The  spirit,  and  not  the  form. 
That  makes  earth's  literature. 


Soul 

Wind  of  the  wide  world's  mantled  thought, 

About  the  vague  vast  blowing; 
This  truth  my  wayward  heart  hath  caught, 
That  being  hath  more  doors  than  thought. 
And  life  is  more  than  knowing. 

That  creeds  of  darkness  or  of  mind 

Are  but  the  scaly  bark 
That  slips  from  off  the  centuried  rind, 
While  inward  works  the  impulse  blind. 

Amid  the  crannied  dark. 

And  deeper  than  the  builded  theme 

Of  priest  or  book  or  seer. 
There  lies  that  life,  that  subtle  dream 
That  rules  the  sunny  warmth  and  gleam 

That  wakes  the  upward  year. 

And  greater  than  all  thoughts  that  fall 
From  wisdom's  page  or  poet's  song, 
That  dim  impulse  behind  it  all. 
Flame  from  the  ages'  granite  wall, 
That  finds  no  written  tongue. 


SOUL  69 

But  speaks  alike  to  mighty  throngs 

Or  alien  life  apart;  ] 

That  lifts  whole  races  from  their  wrongs,  I 

Or  gives  to  one  poor  ploughman  songs  '\ 

That  sing  the  whole  world's  heart.  \ 

This  impulse  in  each  being  rife,  j 

Deep  hidden  in  each  man;  - 

This  inward,  mystic  flame  of  life  S  - 

Behind  the  passion  or  the  strife,  \ 

The  blessing  or  the  ban.  ' 

Behind  that  fierceness  none  can  tame. 

Behind  the  ego  dense, 
It  stands  in  some  dim  cell  aflame. 
Beyond  all  human  thought  or  name, 

A  part  of  the  immense. 

Though  science  reads  the  cabined  mind,  I 

The  wheeling  stars  and  sun,  .  'i 

This  mystic,  veiled  flame  behind  i 

Its  barriers  dread,  shows  her  more  blind  i 

Than  winds  of  night  that  run ;  j 

And  search  the  hollow  hills  of  sleep,  \ 

And  beat  with  phantom  hands; 

But  know  not  of  the  dreams  that  creep,  , 

Or  of  the  haunting  ghosts  that  sweep  j 

Athwart  the  haggard  lands.  \ 

It  is  the  master  of  all  thought. 

All  impulse  and  all  dream. 
And  builds  or  ruins,  base  or  not. 
The  fabric  of  the  common  lot,  I 

The  blackness  or  the  gleam.  :^ 


60  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

It  gives  through  some  weird  inward  need 

The  centuries'  impulse  birth; 
And  weaves  in  subtle  dream  or  deed, 
Of  those  who  burn  or  those  who  bleed, 

All  tragedies  of  earth. 

Behind  the  mighty  mind  of  Greece, 

The  Titan  force  of  Eome, 
It  bade  earth's  battles  rage  or  cease. 
And  reared  those  splendid  dreams  of  peace. 

In  column,  plinth  and  dome. 

Behind  the  artist  when  he  wrought 

Earth's  beauty's  rarest  dream. 
Or  nature's  poet  when  he  caught 
The  melodies  of  morning  fraught 
With  summer's  azure  gleam. 

It  kindled  Homer's  golden  song 

Of  elemental  man, 
And  lurks  behind  the  fateful  throng, 
That  stairway  dread,  of  earth's  weird  wrong 

From  Christ  to  Caliban. 

It  is  that  greater  self  behind 

All  earth's  confused  gleam. 
That  leads  men  up  by  stairways  blind 
Of  blackness,  where  they  grope  to  find 

The  heaven  of  their  dream. 

At  all  earth's  altars  it  hath  knelt. 
Sought  God  'mid  stars  and  dew. 
Wherever  life  by  plain  or  veldt 
Hath  down  the  craving  ages  felt 
The  agony  of  the  few. 


SOUL  61 

All  sorrows,  passions,  all  delights,  i 

All  hopings,  all  despairs,  ] 

All  earth's  old  splendors,  all  her  blights,  ' 

Her  agony  of  wrongs  and  rights,  - 

Her  ruined  starward  stairs; 

Her  songs,  her  battles,  her  grim  blades  ! 

Forged  in  her  caves  of  dream,  ; 

Her  woe  that  cowers  or  upbraids;  '. 

Yea,  all  that  glories,  all  that  fades,  i 

Was  cradled  in  its  gleam.  j 

j 
And  every  hero-heart  who  stood  i 

Alone  in  some  dread  hour  . 

(When  man  faced  man  for  ill  or  good,  ' 

And  history  wrote  her  page  in  blood)  i 

Was  governed  by  its  power.  ! 

Greater  than  mightiest  thought  of  mind. 

That  measures  life  by  rule,  i 

It  soars  by  stars  or  crannies  blind,  j 

In  those  dread  dreams  of  God,  behind  \ 

The  Plato  or  the  fool.  j 


Wind  of  the  wide  world's  mantled  thought 

About  the  vague  vast  blowing; 
Beyond  our  little  "  is  "  and  "  not," 
Beyond  the  curtains  of  our  thought. 
Life's  mighty  tides  are  flowing. 

In  every  common  hour  of  life. 
In  every  flame  that  glows. 


e2  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

j 

In  every  breath  of  being  rife  ' 

With  aspiration  or  of  strife  \ 

Man  feels  more  than  he  knows.  • 

1 

Earth's  child  of  science  counts  the  stars  ] 

Upon  God's  garment's  hem;  \ 

He  plumbs  the  seas,  the  heavens'  bars,  J 

Chains  Jove's  fierce  thunders  to  her  cars,  -i 

Rebuilds  her  rarest  gem,  i 

But  blind  as  night  to  that  within,  ■ 

That  demon,  god,  or  elf,  ! 

That  weird  impulse  to  soar  or  sin,  '. 

That  universe  of  dreams  that  spin,  ' 

That  heaven  or  hell  in  "  self."  i 

That  something  subtle  that  outweighs  i 

The  mightiest  lore  of  man;  I 

That  master  of  his  dreams  and  days,  , 

Invisible  in  some  weird  haze  \ 

Behind  his  bliss  or  ban.  \ 

Which  lifted  Shakespeare  from  the  clod,  \ 

Yet  spake  in  Caliban; 

That  god  in  man,  or  man  in  god,  j 

That  dreamed  all  music  from  the  sod  i 

Since  melody  began.  j 

That  outsoared  Shelley's  lark  in  flight,  ■ 

Beyond  all  dreams  we  know;  - 

That  knew  with  Milton  music's  might,  \ 

Or  that  exquisite  dream  delight  i 

Of  Paganini's  bow.  j 

That  same  dim  impulse  Saxon,  Celt,  j 
Mohawk  or  Tartar  knew; 


SOUL                                          63  I 

Earth's  mightiest  power  to  move  or  melt,  ) 

That  in  old  Shylock's  agony  felt  i 

The  tragedy  of  the  Jew.  ; 

This  demon  force  that  moves  a  world,  | 

Hath  breathed  a  simple  flower,  i 

With  tendrils  milky-white  upcurled,  i 

And  with  demoniac  power  hath  hurled,  i 

Earth's  might  in  one  short  hour.  %  j 

Hath  burgeoned  beauty  from  the  blind,  \ 

Deep  earthy  woodland's  heart;  j 

This  inward  flame  that  wings  the  wind,  j 

Great  in  comparison  to  mind  \ 

As  nature  unto  art.  ! 


Wind  of  the  wide  world's  winnowed  dream. 

About  the  vague  vast  blowing; 
Beyond  our  futile  taper-gleam 
Of  priestly  creed  and  poet's  theme, 

God's  tides  of  might  are  flowing, 

Man  feels  the  present,  feels  the  past. 

As  one  born  blind  may  know 
The  sun,  the  earth,  the  rain  or  blast. 
Or  those  dread  phantom  shadows  cast. 

His  brother  men  who  go. 

But  round  about  the  dreams  we  are. 

In  caves  of  wind  and  fire. 
Where  mind  is  cabined ;  soul  afar. 
Doth  rise  eternal,  star  to  star. 

To  heights  of  God's  desire. 


64  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Life-Spent 

Out  of  the  strife  of  conflict. 

Out  of  the  nightmare  wild, 
Thou  bringest  me,  spent  and  broken. 

Like  the  life  of  a  little  child. 

Like  the  spume  of  a  far-spent  wave. 
Or  a  wreck  cast  up  from  the  sea. 

Out  from  the  pride  of  being. 
My  soul  returns  to  thee. 

Thou,  who  only  art  master. 

Lord  of  the  weak  and  the  strong; 

Who  makest  the  kings  of  earth's  struggles 
As  the  far  refrain  of  a  song. 

And  thou  teachest  me  all  is  as  nothing 
Save  to  follow  the  fate  love  willed. 

And  dree  life's  weird  to  the  final  port, 
Where  the  tumult  of  being  is  stilled : 

Where  the  woe  that  wrecked  me  is  vanished. 
And  the  pride  that  stayed  me  is  gone: 

And  only  the  feeling  of  eventime. 
When  the  toil  of  the  world  is  done : — 

0,  Master  of  being  and  slumber. 

When  the  pageant  and  paean  have  passed; 
Take  me  where  thy  great  silence 

Is  vaster  than  all  that  is  vast. 


TRUTH  66 

A  Present-Day  Creed 

What  matters  down  here  in  the  darkness? 

'Tis  only  the  rat  that  squeals, 
Crushed  down  under  the  iron  hoof. 

'Tis  only  the  fool  that  feels. 

'Tis  only  the  child  that  weeps  and  sorrows 

For  the  death  of  a  love  or  a  rose ; 
While  grim  in  its  grinding,  soulless  mask, 

Iron,  the  iron  world  goes. 

God  is  an  artist,  mind  is  the  all. 

Only  the  art  survives. 
Just  for  a  curve,  a  tint,  a  fancy. 

Millions  on  millions  of  lives! 

If  this  be  your  creed,  0  late-world  poet. 

Pass,  with  your  puerile  pose; 
For  I  am  the  fool,  the  child  that  suffers, 

That  weeps  and  sleeps  with  the  rose. 


Truth 

When"  first  I  trod  in  wistful  gropings  lonely. 
And  felt  for  God,  in  crude  impassioned  youth; 

I  longed  to  know  Thee  and  Thy  spirit  only. 
Thou  great,  clear-orbed  Truth! 

For  Thee  alone  I  sought  'mid  earth's  confusions. 
By  Thee,  and  Thee  alone,  I  measured  life. 

Mighty  or  petty ;   drew  its  deep  conclusions. 
Plumbed  its  alDysses,  felt  its  ebb  or  strife. 


66  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

I  sorrow  o'er  myself,  for  I  have  wronged 

The  greatness  that  He  made  me,  and  have  turned 

Aside  in  dreams,  where  lighter  fancies  longed, 
Or  deeper  channels  where  earth's  passions  burned. 

But  Thou,  still  onward  in  Thy  fixed  untuming, 
Betwixt  the  olden  ill  and  bitter  moan. 

Dost  tread  the  true  old  way,  Thy  lamp  still  burning, 
Led  by  Thy  light  alone. 

And  round  and  round  in  Thy  great  orbit  flaming, 
Like  the  fixed  planets.  Thou  dost  circle  still, 

*Mid  new  confusions,  olden  loves  defaming. 
And  murky  mists  of  those  who  work  Thee  ilL 


The  Singer 

\ 

Life  is  too  bitter,  \ 

Strife  too  strong;  ' 

Lackaday!  lackaday!  ; 

Dead  is  poor  Song.  \ 

There  in  the  mart  j 

Of  the  thronging,  teeming;  i 

Dead  in  the  dust,  ; 

His  goldlocks  gleaming.  ] 

Killed  in  the  fray,  , 

With  his  glad  heart  broken;  .; 

Never  a  sigh  for  him,  { 
Never  a  token 


THE  HEART  OF  SONG  67                   j 

That  the  ill  world  cared;  ' 

While  with  clamor  and  wrong,  j 

She  lifts  the  brute  victors  j 

Of  Mammon  along.  j 

■. 

Dead  in  the  dust,  j 

With  never  a  care  for  him ;  ; 

Save  some  day  the  green  wreath  • 

That  the  world's  heart  will  wear 

for  him.  ''\        \ 

1 

When  there  'mid  her  hours  | 

That  are  truest  and  latest,  j 

She  recalls,  with  dumb  grieving,  ! 

The  voice  of  her  greatest.  j 


The  Heart  of  Song 

Too  much  of  sameness  dulls  our  sense, 
Which,  like  a  bowstring,  should  be  tense. 
To  send  those  arrows  swift  and  clear. 
To  cleave  the  ether  of  the  sphere. 
And  strike  the  living  heart  of  song, 
And  from  the  electric  centre  thrill  the 
listening  throng. 

Too  little  of  the  love  we  feel. 
Too  little  of  the  hate  we  know; 

Where  we  should  pray,  we  only  kneel. 
And  all  the  real  life  forego. 

How  can  our  song  be  true  and  loud. 
And  lifted  to  the  morning  cloud. 
Across  the  fields  of  sunlit  dew? 


6 


68  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

How  can  we  strike  the  lyre  of  life, 
And  sound  the  future's  battle-strife. 
Unless  our  hearts  be  vibrant,  too? 

0,  would  that  poets'  songs  might  fling. 
Like  dews  from  off  the  rosebud's  wing. 

Odors  of  life's  awakening: 
And  never  on  the  heart's  best  harpstrings 

cloy 
The  splendor  of  the  world's  great  l3rric 

joy  I 


oenius  j 

I  BUILT  a  house  one  wondrous  night,  ' 

From  splendid  ruins  of  my  soul,  | 

And  filled  it  with  the  sound  and  light  j 

That  girdles  earth  from  pole  to  pole.  \ 

Its  walls  of  whitest  marble  there,  ] 

A  frozen,  clustered  splendor  grew,  , 

And  all  things  beauteous  and  rare  \ 

Gladdened  its  perfect  chambers  through.  \ 

Strange  relics  of  gone  olden  days. 

Of  ancient  peoples,  times  and  kings,  \ 

In  those  rare  chambers  met  my  gaze,  } 

And  gave  me  vast  imaginings.  \ 

i 

All  glories  of  earth's  richest  art,  ; 

The  painter's  thought,  the  sculptor's  dream,  " 

Kelic  of  all  the  wide  world's  mart  ^ 

Blazoned  beneath  the  moonlight's  gleam.  ' 


GENIUS  69 

The  sweetest  songs  old  poets  sung, 
And  life's  dread,  grimmest  tragedies 

About  these  haunted  galleries  hung. 
Enriched  with  elfin  melodies. 

For  by  some  magic  to  me  known 

I  stole  of  music's  saddest  art. 
From  Pan's  wild  note,  Boetian  blown. 

To  Paganini's  haunted  heart. 

Yea,  mine  alone,  all  this  was  mine, 
To  dwell  with  splendid  dreams  alone. 

And  own  a  majesty  divine. 

Amid  a  marvelous  world  of  stone. 

When  one  strange  night  I  entered  in 
And  found  a  wondrous  spirit  there, 

That  smote  the  moonlight  pale  and  thin. 
With  silvern  magic  sad  and  rare. 

So  radiantly  beautiful. 

It  filled  my  mansion  with  new  light, 
And  bloomed  a  warmth  across  the  cool. 

Pale,  lonely  hauntings  of  the  night. 

So  mystical,  it  stayed  unstirred, 

And  gazed  with  awful  eyes  divine. 
Across  the  human  dreams  that  blurred. 

Into  this  tranced  soul  of  mine. 

And  ever  since  with  inborn  sight, 

Like  opening  of  love's  inward  rose. 
Or  vast  uncurtaining  of  night. 

My  heart  a  mighty  sorrow  knows: 


70  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL  \ 

] 
A  Titan  sadness,  like  the  sea,  1 

That  moans  and  beats  for  evermore  i 

To  break  its  manacles,  and  free 

Its  spirit  from  the  iron  shore.  j 

From  night  to  night  the  years  go  on,  j 

The  ruined  seasons  sink  and  rise; 

And  still  that  spirit,  never  flown,  -j 

Looks  at  me  from  its  wondrous  eyes.  ; 

And  I  must  drink,  undying  pain,  .   | 

The  love,  the  hate,  the  joy,  the  smart;  i 

And  feel  forever,  like  a  chain, 

Earth's  agony  in  my  haunted  heart.  j 


The  Last  Prayer 

Master  of  life,  the  day  is  done; 

My  sun  of  life  is  sinking  low;  \ 

I  watch  the  hours  slip  one  by  one  \ 

And  hark  the  night-wind  and  the  snow.  j 

And  must  thou  shut  the  morning  out,  ^ 

And  dim  the  eye  that  loved  to  see;  j 

Silence  the  melody  and  rout,  »| 

And  seal  the  joys  of  earth  for  me?  j 

And  must  thou  banish  all  the  hope,  \ 

The  large  horizon's  eagle-swim,  1 

The  splendor  of  the  far-off  slope  : 

That  ran  about  the  world's  great  rim,  ; 

That  rose  with  morning's  crimson  rays 

And  grew  to  noonday's  gloried  dome,  . 

Melting  to  even's  purple  haze  \ 

When  all  the  hopes  of  earth  went  home?  \ 


THE  LAST  PRAYER  7l 

Yea,  master  of  this  ruined  house. 

The  mortgage  closed,  outruns  the  lease; 

Long  since  is  hushed  the  gay  carouse. 
And  now  the  windowed  lights  must  cease. 

The  doors  all  barred,  the  shutters  up. 

Dismantled,  empty,  wall  and  floor, 
And  now  for  one  grim  eve  to  sup 

With  death,  the  bailiff,  at  the  door. 

Yea,  I  will  take  the  gloomward  road 

Where  fast  the  arctic  nights  set  in. 
To  reach  the  bourne  of  that  abode 

Which  thou  hast  kept  for  all  my  kin. 

And  all  life's  splendid  joys  forego. 

Walled  in  with  night  and  senseless  stone. 

If  at  the  last  my  heart  might  know 
Through  all  the  dark  one  joy  alone. 

Yea,  thou  mayst  quench  the  latest  spark 

Of  life's  weird  day's  expectancy, 
Eoll  down  the  thunders  of  the  dark 

And  close  the  light  of  life  for  me. 

Melt  all  the  splendid  blue  above 

And  let  these  magic  wonders  die. 
If  thou  wilt  only  leave  me,  Love, 

And  Love's  heart-brother.  Memory. 

Though  all  the  hopes  of  every  race 

Crumbled  in  one  red  crucible. 
And  melted  mingled  into  space. 

Yet,  ]\Iaster,  thou  wert  merciful. 


POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Unabsolved 


A  Dramatic  Monologue  < 


This  poem  is  founded  ^on  the  confession  of  a  man  who  went  with  \ 

one  of  the  expeditions  to  save  Sir  John  Franklin's  party,  and  who,  > 

being  sent  ahead,  saw  signs  of  them,   but  through  cowardice  was  ^ 
afraid  to  telL 


0  FATHER^  hear  my  tale,  then  pity  me,  j 

For  even  God  His  pity  hath  withdrawn.  ^ 

0  death  was  dread  and  awful  in  those  days !  ' 
You  prate  of  hell  and  punishment  to  come,  : 
And  endless  torments  made  for  those  who  sin.  - 
Stern  priest,  put  down  your  cross  and  hearken  me; —  ; 

1  see  forever  a  white  glinting  plain,  i 
From  night  to  night  across  the  twinkling  dark,  -J 
A  world  of  cold  and  fear  and  dread  and  death. 

And  poor  lost  ones  who  starve  and  pinch  and  die; — 

I  could  have  saved  them — I — ^yea,  even  I.  i 

You  talk  of  hell !     Is  hell  to  see  poor  frames,  ^ 

Wan,  leathery  cheeks,  and  dull,  despairing  eyes. 

From  whence  a  low-flamed  madness,  ebbing  out,  ] 

Goes  slowly  deathward  through  the  eerie  hours  ?  \, 

To  hear  forever  pitiless,  icy  winds  1 

Feel  in  the  shivering  canvas  of  the  teot,  ] 

With  idle,  brute  curiosity  nature  hath,  ] 

While  out  around,  one  universe  of  death,  ■ 

Stretches  the  loveless,  hearthless,  arctic  night  ?  j 

This  is  my  doom,  it  sitteth  by  my  side. 

And  never  leaves  me  through  the  desolate  years.  1 

Go,  take  your  hell  to  men  who  never  lived,  ^ 

Save  as  the  slow  world  wendeth,  sluggish,  dull.  j 


UNABSOLVED  73 

Even  they  must  suffer  also,  poor  bleak  ones. 
Then  is  your  feeble  comfort  nothing  worth. 
You  tell  me  to  have  hope,  God  will  forgive. 

0  priest,  can  God  forgive  a  sin  like  mine  ? 
You  say  He  is  all-loving,  did  He  lie 
With  me  that  night  amid  the  eyeless  dark, 

And  writhe  with  me,  and  whisper,  "  Save  thjself,  I 

That  way  to  north  lies  cold  and  age  and  death,  c^ 

And  awful  failure  on  men's  awed  tongues, 

To  linger  years  hereafter ;    Southward  lies 

Home,  heat  and  love,  and  sweet,  blood-pulsing  life, — 

Life,  with  its  morns  and  eves  and  glad  to-morrows. 

And  joy  and  hope  for  many  days  to  be?" 

Did  He,  I  say,  lie  with  me  there  that  night. 

And  know  that  awful  tragedy  beyond. 

And  my  poor  tragedy  enacted  there? 

Then  must  He  feel  Him  since  as  I  have  felt, 

And  live  that  hideous  misery  in  His  heart. 

And,  knowing  this,  I  say  unto  thee,  priest. 

He  could  not  be  a  God  and  say,  forgive.  ' 

You  plead  my  souFs  salvation  the  one  end 

And  aim  of  all  my  thought;  then  hearken,  priest. 

For  this  my  sin  hath  made  me  more  than  wise : — 

That  seems  to  me  the  one  great  sin  I  sinned 

In  selling  all  to  save  mine  evil  self. 

Stay,  hearken,  priest,  and  haunt  me  not  with  hopes 

As  futile  as  those  icy-fingered  winds 

That  stirred  the  canvas  there  that  arctic  night. 

1  bid  thee  hark  and  mumble  not  thy  prayers 
Like  August  bees  heard  in  a  summer  room. 
That  drone  afar,  but  keep  them  for  the  dead, 
The  dull-eared  dead  who  sleep  and  heed  them  not. 


74  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL  \ 

You  say  the  Church  absolves,  you  speak  of  peace ;  ■ 

You  talk  of  what  not  even  God  can  do,  J 
Be  He  but  what  you  make  Him.    In  my  light, — 

And  mine  is  light  of  one  who  knows  the  case,  j 

The  facts,  the  reasons,  and  hath  weighed  them  too, —  \ 

There  is  but  one  absolver,  the  absolved.  \ 

For  I,  since  that  far,  fatal  arctic  night,  \ 

Have  been  alone  in  some  dread,  shadowy  court,  : 

Where,  I  was  judge  and  guilty  prisoner  too.  i 

Words,  words  are  empty;  were  life  built  on  words,  < 
How  rich  the  poor  would  grow,  the  weak  be  strong. 

The  hateful  loving,  and  the  scornful  weak! —  ; 

The  king  would  be  a  peasant,  and  the  poor  J 
A  king  in  his  own  right;  the  murderer,  red 
From  his  foul  guilt,  would  pass  to  God's  own  breast, 
And  all  damned  things,  long  damned  of  earth's  consent,  \ 

And  some  dread  law  much  older  far  than  we,  j 

Would  blossom  righteous  under  heaven's  face.  J 

Still  fared  we  north  across  that  frozen  waste  | 

Of  icy  horror  ringed  with  awful  night,  \ 

To  seek  the  living  in  a  world  of  death;  \ 

And  as  we  fared  a  terror  grew  and  grew  \ 

About  my  heart  like  madness,  till  I  dreamed  j 

A  vague  desire  to  flee  by  night  and  creep,  \ 

By  steel-blue,  windless  plain  and  haunted  wood,  i 

Aiid  wizened  shore  and  headland,  once  more  south.  j 

There,  as  we  went,  the  days  grew  wan  and  shrunk,  i 

And  nights  grew  vast  and  weird  and  beautiful,  \ 

Walled  with  flame-glories  of  auroral  light,  , 

Ringing  the  frozen  world  with  myriad  spears  { 

Of  awful  splendor  there  across  the  night.  ' 

Ancl  ever  a.non  a  shadowy,  spectral  pacl;  \ 


UNABSOLVED  75 

Of  gleaming  eyes  and  panting,  lurid  tongues  ] 

Haunted  the  lone  horizon  toward  the  south.  ] 

Long  day  by  day  a  desolation  went  \ 

Where  our  wan  faces  fared,  o'er  all  that  waste;  ' 
And  I  was  young  and  filled  with  love  of  life. 

And  fear  of  ugly  death  as  some  weird  black,  : 

The  enemy  of  love  and  youth  and  joy;  c^ 

A  lonely,  ruined  bridge  at  edge  of  night,  1 

Fading  in  blackness  at  the  outer  end.  i 

And  those  were  cold,  stem  men  I  went  with  there,  \ 

Who  held  their  lives  as  men  do  hold  a  gift  I 

Not  worth  the  keeping;  men  who  told  dread  tales,  ! 

That  made  a  madness  in  me  of  that  waste  \ 

And  all  its  hellish,  lonely  solitude,  ] 

And  set  my  heart  abeating  for  the  south,  ' 

Until  that  awful  desolation  ringed  i 
My  reason  round,  and  shrunk  my  fearful  heart. 
Yea,  Father,  I  had  saved  them  but  for  this; — 

Why  did  they  send  me  on  alone,  ahead,  \ 

Poor  me,  the  only  weak  one  of  that  band,  \ 

Who  was  too  much  of  coward  to  show  my  fear?  i 

Why  did  life  give  me  that  mad  fear  of  death,  i 

To  make  me  selfish  at  the  very  last?  : 

WTiy  did  God  give  those  men  into  my  hand,  \ 

And  leave  them  victim  to  a  craven  fear  \ 

That  walked  those  lonely  wastes  in  form  of  man  ?  ; 


No,  Father,  take  your  cross,  mine  is  a  pain  i 

That  only  distant  ages  can  out-bum.  i 

Forgiveness!     No,  you  know  not  what. you  say;  ^ 

You  churchmen  mumble  words  as  charmers  do,  I 

And  talk  of  God  and  love  so  glib  and  pat,  j 

And  think  you  reach  men's  souls  and  give  them  light,  j 


76  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

When  all  the  time  my  spirit  is  to  you 

A  land  nnfound,  a  region  far-removed. 

Where  walk  dim  ghosts  of  thoughts  and  fears  and  pains 

You  never  dreamed  of.    What  know  you  of  souls 

Like  this  of  mine  that  hath  girt  misery's  sum 

And  found  the  black  with  which  God  veils  His  face? 

Then  hearken,  priest,  and  learn  thee  of  my  woe, 

For  I  have  lain  afar  on  northern  nights. 

By  star-filled  wastes,  and  conned  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  thought  on  God,  and  life,  and  many  things, 

And  all  the  baffling  mystery  of  the  dark. 

And  I  have  held  that  awful  rendezvous 

Of  naked  self  with  self  alone  and  bare. 

And  knew  myself  as  men  have  never  known ; — 

Have  fought  the  duel,  flashing  hilt  to  hilt, 

And  blade  to  blade,  of  flesh  and  spirit  there. 

Until  I  lay  a  weak  and  wounded  thing. 

Like  some  poor,  mangled  bird  the  sportsman  leaves 

Writhing  and  twisting  there  amid  the  dark. 

You  talk  of  ladders  leading  up  to  light. 
Of  windows  bursting  on  the  perfect  day, 
Of  dawns  grown  ruddy  on  the  blackest  night. 
Yea,  I  have  groped  about  the  muffled  walls. 
And  beat  my  spirit's  prison  all  in  vain. 
Only  to  find  them  shrouded  fold  on  fold; 
And  still  the  cruel,  icy  stars  look  down. 
And  my  dread  memory  stayeth  with  me  still. 

It  was  a  strange,  mad  quest  we  went  upon, 

To  seek  the  living  in  the  lifeless  north. 

For  days,  and  days,  and  long,  lone,  loveless  nights. 

We  set  our  faces  toward  the  arctic  sky. 


UNABSOLVED                                  77  ' 

And  threaded  wastes  of  that  lone  wilderness,  \ 

Beyond  the  lands  of  summer  and  glad  spring,  j 

Beyond  the  regions  kind  of  flower  and  bird,  , 

Past  glint  horizons  of  auroral  gleams,  \ 

A  haunted  world  of  winter's  wizened  sleep,  ] 

Where  death,  a  giant,  aged,  and  stark  and  wan,  | 

Kept  fast  the  entrance  of  those  sunless  caves  i 

Where  hides  the  day  beyond  the  icy  seas.  ^ 

Then  life  ebbed  lower  in  the  bravest  heart,  " 
And  spake  the  leader,  "  If  in  ten  more  days 

We  chance  on  nothing,  then  will  we  return,  '| 

And  set  our  faces  once  more  to  the  south."  [ 

For  that  dread  land  began  to  close  us  in,  , 
With  cold  and  hunger,  bit  at  our  poor  limbs, 

Till  life  grew  there  a  feeble,  flickering  flame,             ,  ! 

Amid  the  snows  and  ice-floes  of  that  land.  i 

Then  ten  days  crept  out  shrunk  and  grey  and  wan,  j 
With  nothing  but  the  lonely,  haunted  waste. 

Then  spake  the  leader,  "  If  in  five  more  days !"  . 

Then  parcelled  out  those  five  grey,  haggard  days,  i 

WTiile  life  to  me  grew  like  an  ebbing  tide,  j 

That  surged  far  out  from  some  dread  death-like  strand.  j 

And  horror  came  upon  me  like  the  night,  j 

That  seemed  to  gird  the  world  in  desolate  walls.  i 

Then  spake  the  leader,  "  If  in  three  more  days !"  \ 

But  when  the  third  day  waned  we  came,  at  last,  ; 
Unto  the  shores  of  some  dread,  lonely  sea. 
That  gloomed  to  north  and  night,  and  far  beyond, 

Where  ruined  straits  and  headlands  loomed  and  sank,  ' 

There  seemed  the  awful  endings  of  the  world.  ■ 

I 

Then  spake  the  leader,  "  Let  us  go  not  yet,  \ 

But  stay  a  little  ere  we  turn  us  south,  i 


78  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Perchance,  poor  souls,  they  might  be  somewhere  here/* 
And  then  to  me,  "  You  go,  for  you  are  young 
And  strong,  and  life  throbs  quickest  in  your  veins. 
And  you  have  eyes  more  strong  to  see,  for  ours 
Are  dimmed  by  the  dread  frost-mists  of  this  land ; 
And  creep  out  there  beyond  yon  gleaming  ledge. 
And  bring  me  word  of  what  you  there  may  see. 
And  if  you  meet  no  sign  of  mast  or  sail. 
Or  hull  or  wreck,  or  mark  of  living  soul. 
Then  we  will  turn  our  faces  to  the  south; 
For  this  great  ocean's  vastness  hems  us  in. 
And  death  here  nightly  creeps  from  strand  to  strand, 
And  binds  with  girth  of  black  the  gleaming  world." 

Then,  whispering  "Madness,  madness,"  to  the  dark, 

I  crept  me  fearful  o'er  that  gleaming  ledge. 

And  saw  but  night  and  awful  gulfs  of  dark, 

And  weird  ice-mountains  looming  desolate  there, 

And  far  beyond  the  vastuess  of  that  sea. 

And  then — 0  God,  why  died  I  not  that  hour? — 

Amid  the  gleaming  floes  far  up  that  shore. 

So  far  it  seemed  that  man's  foot  scarce  could  go,   • 

The  certain,  tapering  outline  of  a  mast. 

And  one  small  patch  of  rag ;  and  then  I  felt 

No  man  could  ever  live  to  reach  that  place. 

And  horror  seized  me  of  that  haunted  world, 

That  I  should  die  there  and  be  froze  for  aye, 

Amid  the  ice-core  of  its  awful  heart. 

Then  crept  I  back,  the  weak  ghost  of  a  life, 

A  miserable,  shaking,  coffined  fear. 

And  spake,  "  I  saw  but  ice  and  winds  and  dark. 

And  the  dread  vastness  of  that  desolate  sea." 

Again  he  spake,  "  Creep  out  once  more  and  look ; 

Perchance  your  sight  was  misled  by  the  gleam." 

And  then  once  more  I  crept  out  on  that  ledge. 


UNABSOLVED  79 

And  saw  again  the  night  and  awful  dark. 

And  that  poor  beckoning  mast  that  haunts  me  yet; 

And  as  I  lay  those  moments  seemed  to  grow. 

As  men  have  felt  in  looking  down  long  years. 

And  there  I  chose  "'twixt  evil  and  the  good," 

And  took  the  evil;  then  began  my  hell. 

And  back  I  crept  with  that  black  lie  on  lips. 

And  spake  again,  "  I  only  saw  the  night. 

And  those  weird  mountains  and  the  awful  deep/' 

At  that  he  moaned  and  spake,  "  Poor  souls !  poor  souls ! 

Then  they  are  doomed  if  ever  men  were  doomed/' 

Whereat  a  sudden,  great  auroral  flame 

Filled  all  the  heaven,  lighting  wastes  and  sea, 

And  came  a  wondrous  shock  across  the  world. 

Like  sounds  of  far-off  battle  where  hosts  die. 

As  if  God  thundered  back  mine  awful  lie. 

And  I  fell  in  a  heap  where  all  was  black. 

When  next  I  lived,  we  were  full  three  days  south. 
And  two  had  died  upon  that  dreadful  march; 
Then  memory  came,  and  I  went  laughing  mad. 
But  kept  mine  awful  secret  to  this  hour. 

No,  priest,  you  can  do  nothing;  pain  like  mine 

Must  smoulder  out  in  its  own  agony. 

Till  there  be  nought  but  ashes  at  the  last. 

But  something  'mid  the  pauses  of  the  dark 

Doth  teach  me  that  I  am  not  all  alone ; 

For  I  have  dreamed  in  my  dread,  maddest  hour. 

An  awful  shadow,  blacker  than  my  black, 

Went  ever  with  me.    Hearken  to  me  now : 

I  never  felt  a  hand  or  saw  a  face, 

I  never  knew  a  comfort  more  than  sleep. 

The  winters  they  are  only  barren  snows. 

And  age  is  hard,  and  death  waits  at  the  last. 


80  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  I  have  felt  in  some  dim,  shapeless  way. 
As  memories  long  remembered  after  youth. 
That  back  of  all  there  is  some  mighty  will, 
Beyond  the  little  dreams  that  we  are  here. 
Beyond  the  misery  of  our  days  and  years. 
Beyond  the  outmost  system's  outmost  rim, 
Where  wrinkled  suns  in  awful  blackness  swim, 
A  wondrous  mercy  that  is  working  still. 


Return  No  More! 

Return  no  more,  0  splendid  sun. 
Sweet  days  come  back  no  more: 

Bring  back  no  more  the  budding  hours. 
The  springtime  to  my  door. 

The  calling  bird,  the  wakening  brook 

Make  mock  upon  mine  ear : 
For  she  who  loved  them  with  me  then 

Went  out  with  yesteryear. 

Fold,  fold  the  year  for  aye  in  snows. 
Howl,  Winter,  by  my  door : 

For  she,  my  rose,  my  bloom  of  life. 
Is  snow  for  evermore. 


THE  LYRE   OF  THE   GODS  81 


The  Lyre  of  the  Gods 

Haunted,  alone,  withdrawn,  in  some  dread  spot. 
Remote  from  men  and  all  their  burdened  way. 

There  is  a  lyre  whereon  the  mad  winds  play 
The  sad  old  songs  of  dead  gone  yesterday; 

Those  splendid  dreams  of  olden  eld  forgot, 

'Mid  all  the  world's  loud  fray. 

t. 

It  holds  all  chords  of  those  forgotten  tunes. 

Those  great  weird  dreams  of  peoples  lost  and  gone. 

Their  pride  and  passion,  all  their  olden  woe. 

Long  past  and  vanished.    Now  these  strings  upon 

Only  the  winds  of  unremembering  blow. 

Where  erstwhile  sang  the  gold  of  Attic  dawn. 
Sad  tragedy,  or  splendid  epic  glow. 

Ages  ago  great  Homer  sought  this  place. 

And  thundered  on  its  strings  the  world's  old  woes 

Of  gods  and  men,  and  smote  in  golden  hours 
Of  mighty  song  those  rich  eternal  throes 

Of  Helen  and  of  fallen  Ilium's  towers. 
Euripides  in  dreams  here  sought  the  base. 

Sombre  and  great,  of  Greek  dramatic  song, 

In  saddest  notes  of  ancient  woe  and  wrong. 

Mantuan  Virgil,  honey  in  his  mouth. 

Sang  to  its  chords  in  eclogues  languorous. 

Of  Tityrus'  beeches,  and  the  wet  warm  south; 
Or  with  .^Eneas  wrecked  the  world  again. 

Dying  anew  in  dart  of  Dido's  pain. 


82  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Stern  Dante  came  and  smote  its  chords  in  woe, 

So  deep  and  dark,  high  heaven  and  hell  between. 
That  nature  shuddered,  hell  from  deeps  below 

Leaped  up  in  anguish  of  her  lurid  sheen. 
Here  rang  his  song  immortal,  to  the  air. 

Bemoaned  dead  [Beatrice  on  its  silvern  strings. 
That  splendid  woe  beyond  all  woe's  compare. 

In  sonorous  dirge  of  death's  imaginings. 

Shakespeare  the  mighty,  loftiest  of  our  days, 
Here  ran  the  subtle  gamut  of  all  things, 

Uttering  the  human  heart  and  its  weird  maze 
Of  love  and  hate  and  hope  and  dread  despair. 

Those  woes  all  hearts  have  sighed  unto  the  air. 
Until  from  out  its  molten  notes  there  ran 
The  godlike,  golden  melody  of  man. 
And  Song,  enfranchised,  from  her  wintry  ban, 
Eose  larklike,  heavenward  on  ethereal  wings. 

Milton,  epic  splendor  of  our  tongue. 
The  dew  of  poesy  on  great  heart  and  lips. 
Smote  here  his  lofty  notes  in  Titan  song 
Of  mighty  Lucifer  in  dark  eclipse 
Of  high  ambition's  failure  headlong  flung. 

And  he  of  Ayr,  old  earth's  immortal  child. 

Found  its  rare  chords  attuned  to  his  hot  heart, 

And  smote  a  note  across  the  world's  bleak  wild. 
Ennobling  amid  its  frenzied  smart. 

Here  later  came  in  mad  or  holy  mirth, 
A  motley  crew  attuned  to  earth's  old  song ; 

High  Coleridge,  subtlest  spirit  of  his  kind, 

Shelley,  child  of  heaven,  like  the  wind. 
In  joy  or  passion,  kissing,  spuming  earth; 


THE  SOUns  HOUSE  83 

Keats,  sad  Greek  of  fated  alien  birth; 

Wordsworth,  gentle  shepherd  of  the  mind; 
And  rarest  of  all  this  rare  belated  throng. 
Sad  Bjrron,  mighty  child  of  music's  saddest  wrong. 

Now  its  great  chords  are  silent;  seldom  now 

The  lonely  wanderer  touches  its  dead  strings. 
He  of  the  honeyed  mouth  and  fated  brow. 

Waking  anew  the  world's  imaginings; 
For  gold  and  grim  ambition  hold  men's  hearts, 

All  life  is  sordid,  and  a  maddened  cry 
Goes  up  like  smoke  from  its  great  thronged  marts. 
Where  Truth  lies  slain  of  Mammon's  deadly  darts. 

And  Love  and  Beauty,  clip  of  their  rare  wings. 

Only  the  winds  of  Autumn,  sonorous,  sad. 

Thunder  in  discords  strange  its  strings  among, 

Ringing  the  vibrant  note  of  some  old  mad 
Forgotten  chord  or  surgent  battle  song: 

Some  weird  lost  passion,  hatred,  love  or  woe. 

Wherewith  the  dead  world  loved,  or  slew  its  foe. 
Or  thrilled  to  splendor  when  its  heart  was  young. 


The  Soul's  House 

Life,  one  by  one,  you  sealed  to  me 

Each  room  in  this  weird  house  of  mine, 

Sacred  to  love's  glad  sanctity. 

Filled  with  youth's  memories  divine. 

First  you  did  seal  those  chambers  glad 
That  opened  on  a  garden  wild, 

When  all  the  winds  of  heaven  were  mad 
About  the  vague  mind  of  the  child. 
6 


84  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Yea,  ages  now  it  seems  ago, 

I  left  the  magic  of  those  rooms. 

Turning  those  ponderous  hinges  slow. 
To  deeper  mysteries,  stranger  dooms. 

Till  time's  grey  corridors  outgrew. 
To  marble  sculpture,  mighty  glow 

Of  all  earth's  genius  fretted  through. 
With  earth's  old  tragedy  of  woe. 

Then  I  traversed  dim,  ancient  halls, 
Euins  of  time's  rememberings, 

That  rusted  on  their  mighty  walls 
The  memories  of  a  thousand  kings. 

Chaldea,  Egjrpt,  here  looked  down 

From  hideous  heads  and  shadowed  wings. 

Till  all  the  drowsed  air  seemed  to  drown 
In  sense  of  awful  whisperings. 

Athens,  austere,  of  snowy  dome 

And  frieze  of  marble,  seemed  to  wait; 

And  all  the  eagled  spears  of  Eome 

Did  clang  their  bronzed  arms  at  the  gate. 

And  then  I  went  and  left  that  past. 
Dread  vision  of  heads  and  columns  and 
spears. 

And  awful  hush  and  tumult  vast 

That  haunt  me  down  the  haunting  years. 


ORPHEUS  86 


Orpheus 

Long  ago  a  sweet  musician. 
On  a  Thracian  plain  at  noon. 

In  the  golden  drowse  of  summer 
Played  so  heavenly  a  tune : 

That  the  very  hills  and  forests 
To  its  chords  their  audience  lent, 

And  the  streams  were  hushed  to  listen 
To  this  wondrous  instrument. 

And  stilled  was  all  the  murmur 
Of  sweetest  winds  at  noon. 

And  bahbling  brooks  along  their  beds 
Hushed  their  melodious  tune. 

The  gales  that  from  the  ocean  came 
To  kiss  the  summer  lands, 

Fell  dying  at  the  harmony 
That  floated  from  his  hands. 

And  youth  forgot  its  passion. 

And  age  forgot  its  woe. 
And  life  forgot  that  there  was  death 

Before  such  music's  flow. 

And  there  was  hush  of  laughter, 
Where  sported  youth  and  maid. 

And  those  who  wept  forgot  their  tears 
While  such  sweet  notes  were  played. 


86  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Yea,  life  was  stayed  a  season, 

Ambition,  Greed  and  Crime, 
And  Hate  and  Lust  crept  shuddering,  'neath 

The  curtain  folds  of  time. 

And  war  in  its  'mid  battle  hushed 

Upon  the -'sanguined  plain, 
The  sword  and  spear  uplifted  'mid 

The  slayer  and  the  slain. 

While  even  the  gods  of  heaven  sank 

From  their  divine  abode. 
Drawn  downward  by  the  magic  dreams 

That  from  his  fingers  flowed. 


Glen  Elila 

(A  Highland  Ballad) 

Cradled  in  loneliness,  splendor  and  clouds. 
Where  the  grim  mountains  lift  up  their  headlands, 
Hushed  in  its  rain-mists,  walled  from  the  world, 
Dreams  the  glad  vale  of  Glen  Eila. 

Lone  are  its  hills  to  the  edge  of  the  world. 
With  their  brows  flame-tipped  with  the  heather. 
Till  down  the  hushed  noonday  are  heard  the  dead  feet 
Of  the  clansmen  who  once  trod  the  heather. 

But  ifs  far,  far  the  day,  and  if s  long  the  long  weeks. 
Looking  back  down  the  years  with  their  sorrow, 
Since  love  lingered  here  and  gleamed  on  the  cheeks 
Of  Mahri,  the  dream  of  Glen  Eila. 


GLEN  EI  LA  87 

The  touch  of  the  morning,  the  sound  of  the  brook. 
In  her  face  and  her  voice  set  me  dreaming; 
Till  it  seemed  the  wild  grandeur  of  glenside  and  peak 
But  existed  to  frame  her  eyes'  gleaming. 

She  comes  once  again  when  the  night  winds  sob  in 
Eound  the  sad,  wintry  curve  of  the  mountains. 
And  I  know  her  sweet  ghost  like  a  dream  from  the  past. 
Welling  up  from  out  the  heart's  fountains. 

Two  little  clasped  hands,  two  pleading  soft  eyes 
Looking  up  to  me,  true,  in  the  twilight. 
And  the  stir  of  a  leaf,  where  the  shy,  watchful  wind 
Went  past — God  help  and  forgive  me. 

0  the  evil  of  youth  and  the  madness  of  youth. 
And  the  curse  of  this  world  with  its  dragon 
Of  callous  grim  form  and  its  mock  of  a  heart, 
That  crushed  my  sweet  flower  of  Glen  Eila ! 

1  saw  my  proud  mother,  my  father  so  grim, 
With  his  twenty  grim  lord-lines  behind  him: — 
And  I  put  by  her  hand,  and  lost  what  this  world 
Hath  sweetest  of  gift  in  its  giving. 

I  could  not  tell  all,  how  could  I  explain 
To  so  pure  and  so  trusting  a  spirit? 
But  I  put  her  love  by  with  a  poor  shifty  lie. 
And  fled  from  my  heart  and  Glen  Eila. 

0  she  dreamed  on  the  slopes,  and  she  gazed  far  to  sea, 

And  she  looked  long  to  mountainward  waiting, 

Till  the  wistful  eyes  dimmed,  and  the  trusting  heart 

broke 
In  the  tryst  of  the  years  in  Glen  Eila ! 


88  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Till  a  slumber  more  kind  than  the  heart  of  a  man 

Took  her  peaceful  at  last  to  its  keeping : 

And  the  stars  peep  at  night,  and  the  mountains  look 

down 
On  the  grave  where  my  dead  love  is  sleeping. 

My  henchmen  are  many,  my  castle  walls  old, 
And  my  station  the  pride  of  my  people; — 
But  I  put  it  all  by,  with  this  world  and  its  lie. 
And  I  long  for  the  slopes  of  Glen  Eila. 

I  long  for  the  brachen,  the  blue  slopes  of  heather. 
The  purpling  peaks  in  the  twilight ; 
And  a  far  away  voice,  and  a  long  vanished  face. 
That  gleams  from  the  slopes  of  Glen  Eila. 

And  oft  when  I  weary  of  statecraft  and  rout. 
And  the  simper  of  dame  and  court-lady ; 
I  wander,  in  dreams,  to  the  heatherhill  gleams. 
And  the  glen  that  I  trod  with  my  Mahri. 

And  I  see  her  sweet  face,  and  I  touch  her  soft  hand. 
And  the  years  roll  back  with  their  shadow 
Of  dim  dreary  days  to  those  God-given  hours 
When  I  wandered  the  slopes  of  Glen  Eila. 

0  the  grim,  heavy  years,  0  the  sad,  thievish  years. 

That  steal  all  our  youth  and  our  gladness ! 

Would  they  but  bring  to  me,  through  their  dream  and 

their  dree 
Nepenthe  to  life  and  its  madness : — 

Till  I  stand  once  again,  'mid  the  sun  and  the  rain. 
Where  the  mountains  slope  down  with  their  heather; — 
While  the  long  years  they  pass,  like  the  wind  in  the 

grass. 
With  Mahri  and  love  in  Glen  Eila. 


THE  BETRAYED  SINGER 


The  Betrayed  Singer 

There  came  a  singer  through  the  world, 

The  world  of  grim  to-day. 
The  fire  of  life  was  on  his  lips 

And  in  his  heart  the  May. 

He  sang  a  golden  song  of  love. 

Of  truth  and  truth's  desire. 
And  flung  a  majesty  of  might 

From  his  alluring  lyre. 

He  came  to  where  the  cliques  of  song, 
Life's  grim  Sanhedrim  dwelt; 

They  hated  him  because  of  all 
The  truth  he  sang  and  felt. 

They  hated  him  and  cried  him  down, 

Because  they  saw  in  him 
The  lark  in  heaven,  sweet  and  clear, 

That  made  their  singing  dim. 

They  slew  him  with  their  evil  tongues. 

Their  artful,  false  disdain. 
And  life  lost  all  that  joy  and  hope 

That  should  have  been  its  gain. 

They  drove  him  from  the  doors  of  hope, 

The  gates  of  human  fame. 
Until  in  dusk  of  evil  spite 

He  died  without  a  name. 


90  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

His  melody  went  fading  out, 

Till  under  heaven's  bars 
His  mighty  music  sobbed  and  sank. 

And  melted  to  the  stars. 

Then  in  his  place  they  set  them  up 

False  gods  of  tinsel  show. 
Poor  helot,  soulless,  mumming  mock 

Of  mighty  long  ago. 

And  built  them  temples  bom  of  art 

Upon  an  evil  time. 
When  gold  and  power  and  pelf  were  prized, 

And  rhyme  was  only  rhyme. 

And  starved  the  yearning  sons  of  God 

Of  beauty,  love  and  truth. 
And  gave  them  stones  who  asked  for  bread. 

In  dread  and  shameless  ruth. 

How  long,  0  Life,  this  mighty  ill. 
This  reign  of  hate?     How  long. 

Permit  to  dree  their  evil  weird. 
Earth's  murderers  of  song? 


"Kature  iDerse 


THE  HOME  OF  SONG 


Nature 

Nature,  the  dream  that  wraps  us  round, 
One  comforting  and  saving  whole; 

And  as  the  clothes  to  the  body  of  man. 
The  mantle  of  the  soul. 

Nature,  the  door  that  opens  wide 
From  this  close,  fetid  house  of  ill ; 

That  lifts  from  curse  of  street  to  vast 
Eeceding  hill  on  hill, 

Nature,  the  mood,  now  sweet  of  night, 
Now  grand  and  splendid,  large  of  day; 

From  vast  skyline  and  cloudy  towers. 
To  stars  in  heaven  that  stray. 

Nature,  the  hope,  the  truth,  the  gleam. 
Beyond  this  bitter  cark  and  dole ; 

Whose  walls  the  infinite  weft  of  dream. 
Whose  gift  is  to  console. 


The  Home  of  Song 

Here  in  northern  solitudes, 
Sounding  shorelands,  glooming  woods. 

Where  the  pines  their  dreams  rehearse. 
Is  the  home  of  haunting  verse. 


»4  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Dreams  of  beauty  here  inspire 
All  the  summer's  radiant  fire. 

In  the  gleam  of  leaf  and  bird, 
Ere  the  Autumn's  voice  is  heard. 

Fluting, 'soft,  her  woodland  tune 
Down  the  golden  afternoon. 

Where  the  seaward  ships  go  down. 
By  some  ancient  Norman  town; 

Where  the  northern  marshes  lie. 
Golden  under  azure  sky; 

Where  the  northern  woodland  glooms, 
Luminous  in  leafy  rooms. 

With  its  ancient,  sunlit  wine, 
Under  smoke  of  dusky  pine: 

Here  the  soul  of  silence  broods. 
Under  haunted  solitudes; 

Here  that  spirit  rare  and  pure, 
Of  the  muses  who  endure. 

Dreams  with  Wisdom's  quiet  eye. 
While  the  phantom  years  go  by. 

Where  far  sunlands  shine  and  drowse. 
And  great  leafy,  golden  boughs. 

Swaying,  pendulous,  within 
A  sleep,  diaphanous  and  thin. 


HIGHER  KINSHIP  95 

Answer  to  the  drowsy  mind, 

And  loiterings  of  the  thoughtful  wind: 

Here  in  seasons  lone  and  long. 
The  spirit  rare  of  northern  song 

Keeps  in  dreams,  remote,  apart. 
The  cadences  of  her  own  heart. 


Higher  Kinship 

There  is  a  time  at  middle  summer  when, 

In  weariness  of  all  this  saddening  world. 

The  simple  nature  aspects  seem  to  me 

As  a  close  kindred,  sweet  and  kind  and  true, 

Giving  me  peace  and  comfort,  and  a  joy 

Not  of  the  senses,  but  of  the  inward  soul. 

The  restful  day,  the  sunny  leaf  and  wind. 

The  patch  of  blue  like  windows  shining  down. 

Do  give  to  life  a  beauty  and  a  calm 

And  a  sweet  sadness,  that  this  mighty  world 

And  all  its  myriad  triumphs  cannot  give. 

0  let  me  live  with  Nature  at  her  door. 
And  taste  her  home-brewed  pleasures,  simple,  glad; 
The  beauty  of  day,  the  splendor  of  the  night ; 
Not  in  great  palace  halls,  great  cloister  domes, 
The  smoke  of  cities  and  the  thronging  din; 
But  out  with  air  and  woodlands,  shining  sun; 
These  my  companions,  this  my  roof,  my  home ! 


96  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Wind 

I  AM  Wind,  the  deathless  dreamer 

Of  the  summer  world; 
Tranced  'in  snows  of  shade  and  shimmer. 

On  a  cloud  scarp  curled. 

Fluting  through  the  argent  shadow 

And  the  molten  shine 
Of  the  golden,  lonesome  summer 

And  its  dreams  divine. 

All  unseen,  I  walk  the  meadows. 

Or  I  wake  the  wheat, 
Speeding  o'er  the  tawny  billows 

With  my  phantom  feet. 

All  the  world's  face,  hushed  and  sober, 

Wrinkles  where  I  run; 
Turning  sunshine  into  shadow. 

Shadow  into  sun. 

Stirring  soft  the  breast  of  waters 

With  my  winnowing  wings, 
Waking  the  grey  ancient  wood 

From  hushed  imaginings. 

Where  the  blossoms  drowse  in  languors. 

Or  a  vagrant  sips. 
Lifting  nodding  blade  or  petal 

To  my  cooling  lips; 

Far  from  gloom  of  shadowed  mountain. 
Surge  of  sounding  sea. 


WIND  97 

Bud  and  blossom,  leaf  and  tendril. 
All  are  glad  of  me. 

Loosed  in  sunny  deeps  of  heaven. 

Like  a  dream,  I  go, 
Guiding  light  my  genie-driven 

Flocks,  in  herds  of  snow; — 

Ere  I  moor  them  o'er  the  thirsting 

Woods  and  fields  beneath, 
Dumbly  yearning,  from  their  burning 

Dream  of  parched  death. 

Not  a  sorrow  do  I  borrow 

From  the  golden  day. 
Not  a  shadow  holds  the  meadow 

Where  my  footsteps  stray; 

Light  and  cool,  my  kiss  is  welcome 

Under  sun  and  moon. 
To  the  weary  vagrant  wending 

Under  parched  noon ; 

To  the  languid,  nodding  blossom 

In  its  moonlit  dell. 
All  earth's  children  sad  and  yearning 

Know  and  love  me  well. 

Without  passion,  without  sorrow. 

Driven  in  my  dream, 
Through  the  season's  trance  of  sleeping 

Cloud  and  field  and  stream; — 

Haunting  woodlands,  lakes  and  forests. 

Seas  and  clouds  impearled, 
I  am  Wind,  the  deathless  dreamer 

Of  the  summer  world. 


POEMS  OP  WILFRED  CAMPBELL, 


Earth 

Mtstiqal  ash  of  all  being, 
Tomb  and  womb  of  all  time. 
Healing,  destroying,  upbuilding, 
Eeeeiving,  riving  apart; 
Cool  and  warm  for  rest, 
Or  hot  for  burgeoning  life ; 
Clod;  yet  pulsate  with  being; 
Infinite,  ever  recurring. 
Dark,  sad  house  of  all  joy. 

Night  that  dawns  in  the  bud 
Whose  perfect  day  is  the  flower; 
Earth,  red  mantle  of  ruin. 
Beautiful  shroud  of  decay. 
Marriage  bed  of  the  cosmos. 
Love  that  gives  and  receives, 
Nubian  nurse  of  all  beauty. 
Swart,  ultimate  fondler  of  joy; 
Out  of  thy  bosom  all  come. 
Back  to  thy  bosom  return, 
Where,  in  thy  mystical  chambers. 
Purified,  sifted,  restored, 
All  life,  dismantled,  out-worn, 
Obeys  the  inevitable  law. 

Red  Egypt  rose  from  thy  dust ; 
Greece,  thine  ineffable  bloom. 
Child  of  thy  magical  beauty, 
Woke  like  a  lotus  at  dawn. 


SNOW  90 

All  the  mad  might  of  the  ages. 
Their  sad  fated  beauty,  their  joy. 
Their  passionate  hopes  and  despairs. 
Arose  from  thy  bosom,  and  back 
To  thy  yearning  bosom  return. 

And  thou.  Swart  Mother,  0  Wise! 
Thou  to  thy  children  wert  kind. 
Thou  smoothedst  the  saddest  of  brows. 
Held  to  thy  breast  all  lovers. 
Folded  their  beauty  of  limb, 
As  thou  dost  fold  to  thy  rest 
Thy  rarest  and  fairest  of  bloom. 

And  never  undaunted  spirit 
Trod  like  a  god  thy  rime. 
But  thou  gavest  him  splendid  rest. 
Where  in  thy  sepulchered  chambers. 
Thy  great  imperishable  sleep. 
Those  kings  of  thy  heart's  best  joy. 


Snow 

Down  out  of  heaven. 
Frost-kissed 

And  wind-driven. 
Flake  upon  flake. 
Over  forest  and  lake, 

Cometh  the  snow. 

Folding  the  forest, 

Folding  the  farms. 
In  a  mantle  of  white; 

And  the  river's  great  arms. 


100  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Kissed  by  the  chill  night 
From  clamor  to  rest, 

Lie  all  white  and  shrouded 
Upon  the  world's  breast. 

Falling  so  slowly 

Down  from  above, 
So  white,  hushed,  and  holy. 

Folding  the  city 
Like  the  great  pity 

Of  God  in  His  love; 
Sent  down  out  of  heaven 

On  its  sorrow  and  crime. 
Blotting  them,  folding  them 

Under  its  rime. 

Fluttering,  rustling. 

Soft  as  a  breath. 
The  whisper  of  leaves. 

The  low  pinions  of  death. 
Or  the  voice  of  the  dawning. 

When  day  has  its  birth. 
Is  the  music  of  silence 

It  makes  to  the  earth. 

Thus  down  out  of  heaven, 
Frost-kissed 

And  wind-driven, 
Flake  upon  ilake, 
Over  forest  and  lake, 

Cometh  the  snow. 


THE  DRYAD'S  HOUSE 


101 


Snowfall 

Down  drops  the  snow,  the  fleecy  hooding  snow. 
On  town  and  wood  and  haggard,  wind-blown  space, 

And  hushes  the  storms,  and  all  weird  winds  that  blow 
Upon  the  world's  dead  face. 

Like  the  great  rest  that  cometh  after  pain. 

The  calm  that  follows  storm,  the  great  surcease, 

This  folding  slumber  comforts  wood  and  plain 
In 'one  white  mantling  peace. 

So  when  His  winter  comes.  His  folding  dream. 
His  calm  for  tempest-tost  and  Autumn-lorn; 

'Twill  gently  fall,  as  falls  by  wood  and  stream 
His  snows  this  winter  morn. 


The  Dryad's  House 

This  cool  and  glooming  summer  wood 
Is  wise  and  silent  in  its  mood, 

Forever  moving  in  its  dream 

Of  breathing  leaf  and  sunny  gleam. 


Whatever  voice  within  is  heard, 
Of  stir  of  leaf  or  whir  of  bird  j 


102  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Without,  its  trance  is  ever  one 

Of  breathing  sleeping  shade  and  sun. 

The  gleaming  gold  of  summer  fields 
Dreams  through  its  green  of  leafy  shields. 

And  windows  of  the  shining  wind. 
With  grey  trunks  looming  dim  behind. 

Grotesque  and  ancient ;  all  their  peace 
The  dreams  of  gods  of  olden  Greece; — 

As  though  in  ages  long  ago, 
Before  their  dreams  began  to  grow, 

Some  startled,  fleeing  dryad  hid 
Within  this  leafy  coverlid. 

Enmeshed  her  silvern  reveries  here. 
And  filled  its  shadows  with  her  fear. 

And  all  the  woodland  mind  inwrought 
With  golden  filagree  of  thought 

And  maiden  fancies,  pensive  spun. 
From  purpled  skeinings  of  the  sun. 

Woven  on  sunbeam-shuttled  looms. 
Dim,  luminous,  of  these  leafy  rooms. 


CAPE  ETERNITY  103 

August 

A  SPIRIT  of  one  rare  mood,  of  one  high  dream. 
She  stands  with  finger  on  lip  in  this  great  hush 

Of  distant  hill  and  wood  and  field  and  stream. 
As  one  who  harkens  to  the  hermit  thrush 

By  some  grave  gateway,  large,  of  evening  dream; 

And  harkening,  lingers,  hearing  in  the  sound 
The  beauty  and  grief  of  all  the  great  dead  years ; 

So  hushed  and  rapt  is  all  the  world  around 
In  that  sweet  sadness  too  remote  for  tears. 

But  felt  in  all  this  beauty  of  summer  swound. 

Far  out,  earth's  mighty  waters,  down  the  day 
Are  strung  to  mystic  cadence ;  dim,  removed 

The  wind's  low  litanies ;  and  far  away 

The  softest  sounds  of  summer,  mute,  reproved 

By  this  rare  silence  of  the  enraptured  day. 

Only  the  inward  breathings  of  the  leaves 

In  woodlands ;  sigh  of  subtlest  summer  sleep ; 

That  magic  charm  which  earth's  high  dream  achieves, 
As  those  great  eyes  in  mystic  trance  drink  deep. 

And  that  great  breast  alternate  joys  and  grieves. 

Cape  Eternity 

(A  Giant  Promontory  on  the  Saguenay  River,  Quebec) 

About  thy  head  where  dawning  wakes  and  dies. 
Sublimity,  betwixt  thine  awful  rifts, — 
'Mid  mists  and  gloom  and  shattered  light,  uplifts 
Piding  in  height  the  measure  of  the  skies. 


104  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Here  pallid  Awe  forever  lifts  her  eyes, 
Through  veiling  haze  across  thy  rugged  clefts, 
Where  far  and  faint  the  sombre  sunlight  sifts, 
'Mid  loneliness  and  doom  and  dread  surmise. 

Here  nature  to  this  ancient  silence  froze, 
When  from  the  'deeps  thy  mighty  shoulders  rose. 
And  hid  the  sun  and  moon  and  starry  light ; — 
Where  based  in  shadow  of  thy  sunless  floods. 
And  iron  bastions,  vast,  forever  broods. 
Winter,  eternal  stillness,  death  and  night. 


The  Mystery 

What  is  this  glory  nature  makes  us  feel. 
And  riots  so  sweet  within  us?    Can  it  be 
That  there  with  man  is  kindred  mystery 
Of  being,  old  heredity 
Of  bud  and  leaf,  of  pulsing  plant  and  tree. 
And  earth  and  air ;  that  in  some  olden  speech,- 
Ere  words  had  being — doth  our  spirits  reach : 
Some  essence  akin  to  music,  subtle,  deep. 
That  plumbs  our  souls  as  dreams  melt  through 
our  sleep? 

Yea,  it  must  fee :  for  often  unto  me 

A  fallen  leaf  hath  greater  power  to  stir 

Than  mighty  volumes  of  earth's  history. 

Or  all  the  tragedy  of  life's  great  blur. 

What  is  it  ?  that  so  little ;  plant  or  flower, 

A  sunset  or  a  sunrise,  gives  us  wings. 

Or  opens  doors  of  glory  every  hour. 

To  godlike  thoughts — and  life's  imaginings. 


SPRING  105 

Yea,  'tis  a  greatness  that  about  us  lies ; 
Within  our  touch — pervading  air  and  sod. 
That  bounds  our  being — ^hidden  from  our  eyes — 
But  inward,  subtle, — guiding  men  to  God. 


Spring 

Season  of  life's  renewal,  love's  rebirth. 

And  all  hope's  young  espousals,  in  your  dream 

I  feel  once  more  the  ancient  stirrings  of  earth ! 

Now  in  your  moods  benign  of  sun  and  wind. 
The  worn  and  aged,  winter-wrinkled  earth. 
Forgetting  sorrow,  sleep  and  iced  snows. 
Turns  joyful  to  the  glad  sun  bland  and  kind. 
And  in  his  kiss  forgets  her  ancient  woes. 

Men  scorn  thy  name  in  song  in  these  late  days, 
When  life  is  sordid,  crude,  material,  grim. 
And  love  a  laughter  unto  brutish  minds. 
Song  a  weariness  or  an  idle  whim. 
The  scoff  of  herds  of  this  world's  soulless  hinds. 
Deaf  to  the  melody  of  your  brooks  and  winds. 
Blind  to  the  beauty  of  your  splendid  dream. 

Because  earth's  hounds  and  jackals  bay  the  moon. 
Must  then  poor  Philomel  forbear  to  sing. 
Or  that  life's  barnfowl  croak  in  dismal  time. 
Love's  lark  in  heaven  fail  to  lift  her  wing? 

And  even  I,  who  feel  thine  ancient  dreams. 

Do  hail  thee,  wondrous  Spring; 

Love's  rare  magician  of  this  waking  world. 


106  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Who  turnest  to  melody  all  earth's  harshest  themes, 
And  buildest  beauty  out  of  each  bleak  thing 
In  being,  where  thy  roseate  dreams  are  furled. 

In  thee  old  age  once  more  renews  his  youth. 

And  turns  him  kindling  to  his  memoried  past, 

Eeviving  golden  moments  now  no  more, 

By  blossoming  wood  and  wide  sun-winnowed  shore; 

While  youth  by  some  supreme,  divine  intent. 

Some  spirit  beneath  all  moods  that  breathe  and  move. 

Builds  o'er  all  earth  a  luminous,  tremulous  tent 

In  which  to  dream  and  love. 

All  elements  and  spirits  stir  and  wake 
From  haunts  of  dream  and  death. 
Loosened,  the  waters  from  their  iced  chains 
Go  roaring  by  loud  ways,  from  fen  and  lake ; 
While  all  the  world  is  filled  with  voice  of  rains, 
And  tender  droppings  toward  the  unborn  flowers. 
And  rosy  shoots  in  sunward  blossoming  bowers. 

Loosened,  the  snows  of  winter,  cerements 
From  off  the  corpse  of  Autumn,  waste  and  flee ; 
Loosened  the  gyves  of  slumber;  plain  and  stream. 
And  all  the  spirits  of  life  who  build  and  dream. 
Enfranchised,  glad  and  free ! 

Far  out  around  the  world  by  woods  and  meres, 
Eises,  like  morn  from  night,  a  magic  haze. 
Filled  with  dim  pearly  hints  of  unborn  days. 
Of  April's  smiles  and  tears. 

Far  in  the  misty  woodlands,  myriad  buds. 
Shut  leaves  and  petals,  peeping  one  by  one, 
As  in  a  night,  leafy  infinitudes, 


SPRING  107 

By  some  kind  inward  magic  of  the  sun; 
WTiere  yestereve  the  sad-voiced,  lonesome  wind 
Wailed  a  wild  melody  of  mad  winter's  mind. 
Now  clothed  with  tremulous  glories  of  the  spring. 

Or  in  low  meadows  where  some  chattering  brook 
But  last  eve  silent,  or  in  slumbrous  tune 
Whispering  sad  melodies  to  the  wan-faced  moon. 
Like  life  slow  ebbing;  now  with  all  life's  dowers, 
Goes  loudly  shouting  down  the  joyous  hours. 

Wan  weeds  and  clovers,  tiny  spires  of  green, 
Kising  from  myriad  meadows  and  far  fields. 
Drinking  within  the  warm  rains  sweet  and  clear. 
Put  on  the  infinite  glory  of  the  year. 

After  long  months  of  waiting,  months  of  woe. 

Months  of  withered  age  and  sleep  and  death. 

Months  of  bleak  cerements  of  iced  snow. 

After  dim  shrunken  days  and  long-drawn  nights 

Of  pallid  storm  and  haunted  northern  lights ; 

Wakens  the  song,  the  bud,  the  brook,  the  thrill, 

The  glory  of  being  and  the  petalled  breath. 

The  newer  wakening  of  a  magic  will. 

Of  life  restirring  to  its  infinite  deeps. 

By  wave  and  shore  and  hooded  mere  and  hill ; — 

And  I,  too,  blind  and  dumb,  and  filled  with  fear, 

Life-g3rved  and  frozen,  like  a  prisoned  thing. 

Feel  all  this  gloiy  of  the  waking  year. 

And  my  heart,  fluttering  like  a  young  bird's  wing. 

Doth  tune  itself  in  joyful  guise  to  sing 

The  splendor  and  hope  of  all  the  splendid  year. 

The  magic  dream  of  spring. 


108  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

In  the  Spring  Fields 

There  dwells  a  spirit  in  the  budding  year — 
As  motherhood  doth  beautify  the  face — 
That  even  lends  these  barren  glebes  a  grace, 
And  fills  grey  hcJurs  with  beauty  that  were  drear 
And  bleak  when  the  loud,  storming  March  was  here : 
A  glamor  that  the  thrilled  heart  dimly  traces 
In  swelling  boughs  and  soft,  wet,  windy  spaces, 
And  sunlands  where  the  chattering  birds  make  cheer. 

I  thread  the  uplands  where  the  wind's  footfalls 
Stir  leaves  in  gusty  hollows,  autumn's  urns. 
Seaward  the  river's  shining  breast  expands. 
High  in  the  windy  pines  a  lone  crow  calls, 
And  far  below  some  patient  ploughman  turns 
His  great  black  furrow  over  steaming  lands. 


Renewal 

Once  more  the  sweet  glad  springtime 

Comes  over  the  lonely  land, 
And  hearts  long  worn  and  sorrow-frayed 

Are  glad  for  the  breezes  bland. 

Once  more  the  warm  sun  smites  the  earth 

With  kindly  touch  and  smile. 
And  the  budding  loves  are  filling  the  woods 

For  many  a  gladdening  mile. 

Age  and  death  and  sorrow 

Go  when  the  torch  warms  in. 
And  youth  and  joy  and  love  and  hope 

The  lone  worn  spaces  win. 


THE  DRYAD  109 

And  man,  the  tired  wayfarer. 

Turns  from  his  grief  and  toil. 
To  greet  the  tender  buds,  and  sweet, 

That  peep  from  the  burgeoning  soil. 

Forgot  are  the  ills  that  smite  us, 

In  hours  both  lone  and  lorn. 
For  the  joys  of  earth  have  seized  the  world 

In  the  moods  of  love  reborn. 

How  long,  0  mighty  Mother, 

With  thy  returning  power. 
How  oft  with  magic  of  thy  dream 

Wilt  thou  bring  back  the  hour. 

Before  the  great  sleep  claims  us, 

Surcease  from  memory's  ill. 
When  the  Joy  no  more  with  the  crocus-bud 

And  Spring,  flames  over  the  hill? 


The  Dryad 

Her  soul  was  sown  with  the  seed  of  the  tree 

Of  old  when  the  earth  was  young ; 
And  glad  with  the  light  of  its  majesty 

The  light  of  her  beautiful  being  upgrew. 
And  the  winds  that  swept  over  land  and  sea. 

And  like  a  harper  the  great  boughs  strung. 

Whispered  her  all  things  new. 

The  tree  reached  forth  to  the  sun  and  the  wind 

And  towered  to  heaven  above. 
But  she  was  the  soul  that  under  its  rind 

Whispered  its  joy  through  the  whole  wood's 
span, 


110  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Sweet  and  glad  and  tender  and  kind; 
For  her  love  for  the  tree  was  a  holier  love 
Than  the  love  of  woman  for  man. 

The  seasons  came  and  the  seasons  went 
And  the  woodland  music  rang; 

And  under  her  wide  umbrageous  tent. 
Hidden  forever  from  mortal  eye, 

She  sang  earth's  beauty  and  wonderment. 
But  men  never  knew  the  spirit  that  sang 
This  music  too  wondrous  to  die. 

Only  nature,  forever  young, 

And  her  children  forever  true, 
Knew  the  beauty  of  her  who  sung 

And  her  tender,  glad  love  for  the  tree; 
Till  on  her  music  the  wild  hawk  hung 

From  his  eyrie  high  in  the  blue 

To  drink  her  melody  free. 

And  the  creatures  of  earth  would  creep  from 
their  haunts 

To  stare  with  their  wilding  eyes. 
To  hearken  those  rhythms  of  earth's  romance. 

That  never  the  ear  of  mortal  hath  heard; 
Till  the  elfin  squirrels  would  caper  and  dance, 

And  the  hedgehog's  sleepy  and  shy  surprise 

"Would  grow  to  the  thought  of  a  bird. 

And  the  pale  wood-flowers  from  their  cradles 
of  dew 
Where  they  rocked  them  the  whole  night  long. 
While  the  dark  wheeled  round  and  the  stars 
looked  through 
Into  the  great  wood's  slumbrous  breast, 


THE  DRYAD  111 

Till  the  grey  of  the  night  like  a  mist  outblew; 
Hearkened  the  piercing  joy  of  her  song 
That  sank  like  a  star  in  their  rest. 

But  all  things  come  to  an  end  at  last 

When  the  wings  of  being  are  furled. 
And  there  blew  one  night  a  maddening  blast 

From  those  wastes  where  ships  dismantle 
and  drown. 
That  ravaged  the  forest  and  thundered  past. 

And  in  the  wreck  of  that  ruined  world 

The  dryad's  tree  went  down. 

When  the  pale  stars  dimmed  their  tapers  of 
gold. 
And  over  the  night's  round  rim 
The  day  rose  sullen  and  ragged  and  cold. 

Over  that  wind-swept,  desolate  wild. 
Where  the  huge  trunks  lay  like  giants  of  old, 
Prone,  slain  on  some  battlefield,  silent  and 

grim. 
The  wood-creatures,  curious,  mild. 

Searching  their  solitudes,  found  her  there 

Like  a  snowdrift  out  in  the  mom ; 
One  lily  arm  round  the  beech-trunk  bare. 

One  curved,  cold,  under  her  elfin  head. 
With  the  beechen  shine  in  her  nut-brown  hair, 

And  the  pallor  of  dawn  on  her  face,  love-lorn, 

Beautiful,  passionless,  dead. 


112  POEMS  OF  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 


A  Northern  River 

Where  northern  forests,  dusk  and  dim. 
Loom  dark  the  arctic  skies  along; 

'Mid  well-heads  of  the  world  abrim. 
My  swift  tides  sparkle  into  song. 

By  craggy  waste,  by  haunted  verge. 

With  woodland  high  on  woodland  piled, 

Wherein  rude  autumn's  iron  surge 
Thundered  afar,  and  smote  the  wild. 

By  regions  where  the  night-wind  grieves, 

Down  sunsets  red  and  ruinous, 
'Neath  crocus  dawns  and  purpling  eves. 

And  midnights  lorn  and  luminous : — 

My  winding  waters  swell  their  tides, 
Eocked  'mid  the  forest's  rude  unrest, 

Where  brooks  down  gleaming  mountain  sides 
Sing,  bird-like,  brimming  to  my  breast. 

By  craggy  scarp  and  sheering  rock 
My  shining  music  curves  and  cools. 

Then  leaps  with  lightning  roar  and  shock 
Into  a  hundred  thunder  pools. 

By  cabins  in  some  wood's  recess. 

By  farmlands  where  the  fields  slope  down ; 
By  busy  gleaming  villages, 

To  far-off  breath  and  smoke  of  town : — 


A  NORTHERN  RIVER  113 

To  furnace  blast  of  city^s  roar. 

Where  life  goes  maddening  to  and  fro. 

In  ceaseless  murmurs  evermore; — 
My  swift  tides  eddy  in  their  flow. 

Betwixt  the  lily  and  the  rose 

Of  dewy  night  and  petalled  morn. 
When  life's  dim  wonder-gates  unclose, 

New  glories  on  my  breast  are  born. 

In  quiet  borders  where  I  sweep. 

Housed  in  their  roofs  of  bloom  and  sod. 

My  music  singing  round  their  sleep. 
The  dead  lie  looking  up  to  God ; 

In  those  low  homes  of  love's  release. 

Where  all  are  foolish,  all  are  wise. 
The  daisies  blooming  round  their  peace. 

The  dust  of  sleep  upon  their  eyes. 

By  dreaming  banks  my  voice  grows  dumb 

In  shades  of  summer  sanctity 
And  often  here  glad  lovers  come 

On  summer  nights,  and  know  with  me, — 

The  under-dreams  that  throng  and  bless. 

The  unspoken,  swift  imaginings ; 
The  sweetness  tongue  cannot  express. 

The  happiness  at  heart  of  things. 

And  often  little  children  race 
With  sunny  laughter  where  I  pass. 

And  kneel  and  mirror  in  my  face 
Their  innocence,  as  in  a  glass. 


114  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Curved,  sunny-breasted,  where  I  dream. 
Here  in  and  out,  then  far  away. 

By  snowy  surge  and  amber  gleam. 
My  waters  silver  into  spray. 

By  lowlands,  when  the  noons  are  still. 
And  all  the  world  enmeshed  in  sleep ; 

Now  by  a  bridge,  a  ruined  mill, 
I  wake  with  murmurs,  ere  I  leap 

In  thunders  o'er  a  craggy  ledge. 
To  churn  in  surge,  then  sparkle,  free. 

In  gold,  across  the  world's  dim  edge, 
With  wimpling  music  to  the  sea. 


The  Humming  Bee 

Glad  music  of  the  summer's  heart, 
Jargoning  from  flower  to  flower, 
A  part  of  each  unconscious  hour 

Until  the  happy  days  depart ! 

Thou  dream-like  toiler  of  the  fields ! 

Each  honeyed  spot  thou  knowest  well 
"Where  Nature's  heart  her  sweetness  yields. 

Some  ruined  trunk  thy  citadel; 
There  buildest  a  home  for  Winter's  hour 

In  some  lone,  sunlight-haunted  place. 
When  all  the  year  is  at  its  power. 
And  June's  high-tide  on  bank  and  bower 

Mirrors  in  blossoms  Nature's  face. 


THE  HUMMING  BEE  115 

At  early  mom  by  breathing  wood. 

Or  in  some  dewy  clover  dell, 
Tuning  the  young  day's  solitude, — 

Or  down  the  slumbrous  afternoon 
Eich-freighted,  wingest  thy  tuneful  way, 

Self-musing,  murmurous,  musical. 
Amid  the  whole  world's  dreamy  swoon; 

Sole  voice  of  all  the  drowsed  day. 
Until  the  gradual  shadows  fall: — 

Then,  by  some  lonely  pasture-fell 
At  ruddy  eve  when  homeward  come 
Past  deepening  shade  or  fading  ray 
The  weary  children  of  the  day, 

I  hear  thy  joyous,  drowsy  hum. 
Till  stars  peep  out  and  woods  breathe  low. 

And  sounds  of  human  toil  grow  dumb. 
And  Night,  the  blessed,  comes  apace, 
Bending  to  Earth's  her  cooling  face, 

While  airs  across  the  dark  outblow: 
Then  rocked  on  some  glad  blossom's  breast. 

Thou  dreamest  to  rest. 

When  Summer  wanes  to  Autumn's  age. 
And  come  the  days  of  fate  and  rage, 

0  happy  Humming  Bee ! 
Then  wilt  thou  sink  to  wintry  sleep, 
When  storms  are  hoarse  along  the  deep. 

In  hushed  tranquillity. 
No  more  wilt  wind  thy  subtle  horn 
By  dreamy  eve  or  misty  morn. 
When  trees  are  leafless,  pastures  shorn. 

Ah  me !  ah  me ! 
Could  we,  like  thee,  go  down  the  days 
Of  summer  hush  to  autumn  haze, 
8 


ne  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Housing,  with  what  we  built  before. 
The  gold  of  all  our  memory's  store 
And  garnered  thought; 
So  when  the  bleak  December's  hate 
Beat  round  the  bastions  of  our  fate, 
We,  wrapt  in  wealth  of  honeyed  dreams 
Of  kindlier  visions,  f  ar-o£E  streams. 
Might  heed  it  not. 


A  Wood  Lyric 

Into  the  stilly  woods  I  go. 

Where  the  shades  are  deep  and  the  wind-flowers 

blow, 
And  the  hours  are  dreamy  and  lone  and  long. 
And  the  power  of  silence  is  greater  than  song. 
Into  the  stilly  woods  I  go. 
Where  the  leaves  are  cool  and  the  wind-flowers  blow. 

When  I  go  into  the  stilly  woods. 

And  know  all  the  flowers  in  their  sweet,  shy  hoods. 

The  tender  leaves  in  their  shimmer  and  sheen 

Of  darkling  shadow,  diaphanous  green. 

In  those  haunted  halls  where  my  footstep  falls. 

Like  one  who  enters  cathedral  walls, 

A  spirit  of  beauty  floods  over  me. 

As  over  a  swimmer  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

That  strengthens  and  glories,  refreshens  and  fills. 

Till  all  mine  inner  heart  wakens  and  thrills 

With  a  new  and  a  glad  and  a  sweet  delight. 

And  a  sense  of  the  infinite  out  of  sight. 

Of  the  great  unknown  that  we  may  not  know. 

But  only  feel  with  an  inward  glow 

When  into  the  great,  glad  woods  we  go. 


AN  AUGUST  REVERIE  117 

0  life-worn  brothers,  come  with  me 

Into  the  wood's  hushed  sanctity. 

Where  the  great,  cool  branches  are  heavy  with  June, 

And  the  voices  of  summer  are  strung  in  tune; 

Come  with  me,  0  heart  out-worn, 

Or  spirit  whom  life's  brute-struggles  have  torn, 

Come,  tired  and  broken  and  wounded  feet. 

Where  the  walls  are  greening,  the  floors  are  sweet. 

The  roofs  are  breathing  and  heaven's  airs  meet. 


An  August  Reverie 

There  is  an  autumn  sense  subdues  the  air. 
Though  it  is  August  and  the  season  still 

A  part  of  summer,  and  the  woodlands  fair. 
I  hear  it  in  the  humming  of  the  mill, 

I  feel  it  in  the  rustling  of  the  trees. 

That  scarcely  shiver  in  the  passing  breeze. 

*Tis  but  a  touch  of  Winter  ere  his  time, 

A  presaging  of  sleep  and  icy  death. 
When  skies  are  rich  and  fields  are  in  their  prime. 

And  heaven  and  earth  commingle  in  a  breath : — • 
When  hazy  airs  are  stirred  with  gossamer  wings. 
And  in  shorn  fields  the  shrill  cicada  sings. 

So  comes  the  slow  revolving  of  the  year. 
The  glory  of  nature  ripening  to  decay. 

When  in  those  paths,  by  which,  through  loves  austere, 
All  men  and  beasts  and  blossoms  find  their  way, 

By  steady  casings  of  the  Spirit's  dream, 

From  sunlight  past  the  pallid  starlight's  beam. 


118  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Nor  should  the  spirit  sorrow  as  it  passes, 
Declining  slowly  by  the  heights  it  came; 

We  are  but  brothers  to  the  birds  and  grasses, 
In  our  brief  coming  and  our  end  the  same : 

And  though  we  glory,  godlike  in  our  day, 

Perchance  some  kindred  law  their  lives  obey. 

There  are  a  thousand  beauties  gathered  round: 

The  sound  of  waters  falling  over-night. 
The  morning  scents  that  steam  from  the  fresh 
ground. 
The  hair-like  streaming  of  the  morning  light 
Through  early  mists  and  dim,  wet  woods  where 

brooks 
Chatter,  half-seen,  down  under  mossy  nooks. 

The  ragged  daisy  starring  all  the  fields. 
The  buttercup  abrim  with  pallid  gold. 

The  thistle  and  burr-flowers  hedged  with  prickly 
shields, 
All  common  weeds  the  draggled  pastures  hold, 

With  shriveled  pods  and  leaves,  are  kin  to  me. 

Like-heirs  of  earth  and  her  maturity. 

They  speak  a  silent  speech  that  is  their  own. 
These  wise  and  gentle  teachers  of  the  grass ; 

And  when  their  brief  and  common  days  are  flown, 
A  certain  beauty  from  the  year  doth  pass : — 

A  beauty  of  whose  light  no  eye  can  tell. 

Save  that  it  went;  and  my  heart  knew  it  well. 

I  may  not  know  each  plant  as  some  men  know  them. 

As  children  gather  beasts  and  birds  to  tame; 
But  I  went  'mid  them  as  the  winds  that  blow  them. 


AN  AUGUST  REVERIE  119 

From  childhood's  hour,  and  loved  without  a  name. 
There  is  more  beauty  in  a  field  of  weeds 
Than  in  all  blooms  the  hothouse  garden  breeds. 

For  they  are  nature's  children;  in  their  faces 

I  see  that  sweet  obedience  to  the  sky 
That  marks  these  dwellers  of  the  wilding  places. 

Who  with  the  season's  being  live  and  die; 
Knowing  no  love  but  of  the  wind  and  sun, 
Who  still  are  nature's  when  their  life  is  done. 

They  are  a  part  of  all  the  haze-filled  hours,    • 
The  happy,  happy  world  all  drenched  with  light, 

The  far-off,  chiming  click-clack  of  the  mowers. 
And  yon  blue  hills  whose  mists  elude  my  sight; 

And  they  to  me  will  ever  bring  in  dreams 

Far  mist-clad  heights  and  brimming  rain-fed  streams. 

In  this  dream  August  air,  whose  ripened  leaf, 
Pausing  before  it  puts  death's  glories  on. 

Deepens  its  green,  and  the  half-garnered  sheaf 
Gladdens  the  haze-filled  sunlight,  love  hath  gone 

Beyond  the  material,  trembling  like  a  star. 

To  those  sure  heights  where  all  thought's  glories  are. 

And  Thought,  that  is  the  greatness  of  this  earth. 
And  man's  most  inmost  being,  soars  and  soars. 

Beyond  the  eye's  horizon's  outmost  girth. 
Garners  all  beauty,  on  all  mystery  pores : — 

Like  some  ethereal  fountain  in  its  flow. 

Finds  heavens  where  the  senses  may  not  go. 


120  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


To  the  Ottawa 

Out  of  the  northern  wastes,  lands  of  winter  and  death. 
Regions  of  ruin  and  age,  spaces  of  solitude  lost; 
You  wash  and  thunder  and  sweep, 
And  dream  and  sparkle  and  creep, 
Turbulent,  luminous,  large. 
Scion  of  thunder  and  frost. 

Down  past  woodland  and  waste,  lone  as  the  haunting  of 
even. 
Of  shriveled  and  wind-moaning  night  when  Winter 
hath  wizened  the  world ; 
Down  past  hamlet  and  town. 
By  marshes,  by  forests  that  frown, 
Brimming  their  desolate  banks, 
Your  tides  to  the  ocean  are  hurled. 


Glory  of  the  Dying  Day 

0  GLORY  of  the  dying  day ! 
That  into  darkness  fades  away. 
0  violet  splendor !  melting  down 
By  river  bend  o'er  tower  and  town; 
0  glory  of  the  dying  dayl 
That  into  darkness  fades  away. 

0  majesty  of  dying  light  1 

0  splendor  of  the  gates  of  night  I 


GLORY  OF  7 HE  DYING  DAY  121 

That  all  a  molten  glory  glows. 

Till  purple-crimson  fades  to  rose, 

And  dying,  melting,  outward  goes 

In  ashes  on  the  even's  rim 

When  all  the  world  grows  faint  and  dim. 

0  silvern  sound  of  far-off  bells ! 

Ringing,  ringing  miles  away, 
Over  river  fields  and  fells, 

Eound  the  crimson  and  the  grey: 
Pealing  softly  evening  out 

As  the  dewy  dusk  comes  down, 
And  the  great  night  folds  about 

Eiver,  woodlands,  hills,  and  town. 

0  glory  of  the  fading  hills, 

Splendor  of  the  river's  breast, 
0  silence  that  the  whole  world  fills. 

Sanctity  of  peaceful  rest! 
Alien  from  the  care  of  day, 

Now  a  petalled  star  peeps  in, 

Now  nighf  s  choruses  begin, 
Musical  and  far  away. 

0  glory  of  the  dying  day. 
When  my  life's  evening  fades  away. 
May  it  in  splendid  peace  go  down 
Like  yours  o'er  river-bend  and  town; 
Not  into  silence  blind  and  stark, 
Not  into  wintry  muffled  dark. 

But  heralded  by  stars  divine. 
May  my  life's  latest  evening  ray 

Melt  into  such  a  night  as  thine. 


122  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Walls  of  Green 

Walls  of  green  where  the  wind  and  the  sunlight  stir, 
Rippling  windows  of  light  where  the  sun  looks  through, 
And  spaces  of  day  that  widen  and  blur  beyond. 
Out  to  the  haze-rimmed,  purpled  edge  of  the  world. 

Aisles  whose  pavements  are  etched  with  ghosts  of  moving 
Leaves  and  phantom  branches  raftered  above ; 
Wind-swayed  arches  rocking  under  the  blue. 
Breathing  under  the  dim,  stirred  peace  of  the  world. 

Walls  of  green  skirting  the  high-built  heaven. 
Dusky  pines,  poplars  clapping  their  hands. 
Arching  elms  holding  the  spaces  aloft. 
Under  the  wind-swept,  argosied  dome  of  sky. 

Walls  of  green.    Under  their  luminous  glooms. 
Dim  and  sweet,  the  fancies  of  summer  lie, 
Sylvan  murmurs  of  sun  and  leafy  shadow. 
Music  of  bird  and  swaying  of  tenuous  bough. 

Under  here  the  haunted  heart  of  summer 
Hides  in  its  pensive  veilings  of  tremulous  green. 
Where  the  sl^  peers  through  and  the  ruddy  eye  of  the 

sun. 
Letting  the  world,  remote,  and  its  roar  go  by. 

Here  is  the  realm  of  fancy,  the  poet's  land. 
This  house  of  breathing  leaves  and  summer  and  sun ; 
Where  the  eye  is  keen  for  beauty,  the  ear  intuned. 
And  the  hushed  heart  glad  for  silence  and  slumber  and 
dreams. 


ODE   TO  SILENCE  123 

And  here,  chance  now  and  anon  when  the  world  is 

stilled. 
And  life  is  afar,  and  earth  of  her  care  swept  clean, 
Do  the  gods  come  hack  as  of  old  in  the  gold  of  the  world, 
And  the  elfin  creatures  dance  in  their  sunbeam  dreams : 

And  the  high  thoughts  wake,  and  the  great  ones  tread  as 

of  yore. 
In  olden  majesty  under  these  lofty  aisles, 
Where  the  woodshade  glooms,  or  the  gossamer  sunlight 

smiles. 
In  the  strength  of  the  trees  or  the  wide,  blue  lift  of  the 

sky. 

Yea,  here  they  come  to  the  children  of  earth  as  of  yore, 
Bringing  their  god-gifts,  vision  and  beauty  and  lore. 
Brimming  the  world  with  the  old-time  effort  and  joy. 
And  Titan  moods  of  the  old  world's  golden  desire. 


Ode  to  Silence 

Thine  are  the  inaudible  harmonies  that  keep 
The  brooding  breathings  of  the  night's  glad  lute, 

When  in  those  pauses  'twixt  her  sleep  and  sleep 
All  holy  tunes  be  mute. 

All  beauteous  seasons  thou  dost  guard  and  bless. 

The  tremulous  dawn,  hushed  noon  and  cooling  night, 

Earth,  air  and  ocean  thy  dim  palaces 
Filled  with  divine  delight. 

The  fathomless  wells  of  heaven's  deeps  are  thine. 
Thou  watchest  over  nighf  s  infinitudes. 


124  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  starry  vast,  within  whose  chant  divine 
No  dissonant  chord  intrudes. 

Thine  are  those  oceans,  dim,  untenanted, 
The  unprescient  homes  of  pregnancies  to  he, 

Filling  the  lonely  realms  of  mighty  dread 
With  formless  majesty. 

Thou  keepest  the  dewy  caverns  of  the  night 
About  majestic  risings  of  the  moon. 

When  over  the  breathing  woods  her  phosphor  light 
Eises  to  silvern  noon. 

Thou  lovest  those  lonely  avenues  of  light 
In  the  sun-kindled  woods  at  early  mom. 

Upon  the  rosy  rim  of  fading  night 
And  cloudy  meadows  shorn ; 

Filling  the  joyous  airs  with  summer  fraught. 
And  morning's  slopes  with  dewy  odors  bland; 

Here  with  glad  Fancy  and  slow-winged  Thought 
Thou  wanderest  hand  in  hand. 

Thou  holdest  those  intervals  of  peace  that  dwell 
About  the  caverned  shores  of  ocean  furled, 

When  the  long  midnight  hush  or  noonday  swell 
Slumbers  about  the  world. 

But  dearest  of  all  thou  lovest  that  pensive  hour, 
That  holy  hour  about  the  fringe  of  eve, 

When  sunset  dreams  in  lonely  woods  have  power 
Imaginings  to  weave; — 

When  all  the  sunset  world  seems  ages  old 
In  sad  romance  and  achings  of  dead  wrong. 

And  all  the  beauty  of  life  is  poignant  gold 
In  the  hermit  thrush's  song. 


ODE   TO   THUNDER  CAPE  125 

Then  down  the  long,  dim  memories  of  old  woods 

Facing  forever  the  far-westering  sun, 
I'd  dream  for  aye  through  hallowed  solitudes 

Where  magic  echoes  run; — 

Seeking  the  majesty  of  peace  wherein  thou  hidest. 
Those  golden  rivers  of  being  without  alloy; 

Knowing  the  infinite  of  dream  is  where  thou  bidest. 
Thou  and  that  calm  joy. 


Ode  to  Thunder  Cape* 

Storm-beaten  cliff,  thou  mighty  cape  of  thunder; 
Eock-Titan  of  the  north,  whose  feet  the  waves  beat 

under; 
Cloud-reared,  mist-veiled,  to  all  the  world  a  wonder. 
Shut  out  in  thy  wild  solitude  asunder, 

0  Thunder  Cape,  thou  mighty  Cape  of  Storms  I 

About  thy  base,  like  woe  that  naught  assuages, 
Throughout  the  years  the  wild  lake  raves  and  rages ; 
One  after  one,  time  closes  up  weird  pages ; 
But  firm  thou  standest,  unchanged,  through  the  ages, 
0  Thunder  Cape,  thou  awful  Cape  of  Storms ! 

Upon  thy  ragged  front  the  storm's  black  anger 
Like  eagle  clings,  amid  the  elements'  clangor: 
About  thee  feels  the  lake's  soft  sensuous  languor; 
But  dead  alike  to  loving  and  to  anger. 

Thou  towerest  bleak,  0  mighty  Cape  of  Storms ! 

Year  in,  year  out,  the  summer  rain's  soft  beating, 
Thy  front  hath  known,  the  winter's  snow  and  sleeting; 

*  Thunder  Cape,  an  immense  clifTof  ba.<;altlc  rock,  thirteen  hundred  feet  high, 
guards  the  entrance  to  Thunder  Bay,  Lake  Superior. 


126  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  unto  each  thou  givest  contemptuous  greeting. 
These  hurt  thee  not  through  seasons  fast  and  fleeting; 
0  proud,  imperious,  rock-ribbed  Cape  of  Storms ! 

In  August  nights,  when  on  thine  under  beaches 
The  lake  to  caverns  time-weird  legend  teaches, 
And  moon-pearled  waves  to  shadowed  shores  send 

speeches ; 
Far  into  heaven  thine  awful  darkness  reaches, 

O'ershadowing  night ;  thou  ghostly  Cape  of  Storms  I 

In  wild  October,  when  the  lake  is  booming 
Its  madness  at  thee,  and  the  north  is  dooming 
The  season  to  fiercest  hate,  still  unconsuming, 
Over  the  strife,  thine  awful  front  is  looming; 
Like  death  in  life,  thou  awful  Cape  of  Storms  I 

Across  thy  rest  the  wild  bee's  noonday  humming. 
And  sound  of  martial  hosts  to  battle  drumming. 
Are  one  to  thee — no  date  knows  thine  incoming; 
The  earliest  years  belong  to  thy  life's  summing, 
0  ancient  rock,  thou  aged  Cape  of  Storms ! 

0  thou  so  old,  within  thy  sage  discerning. 
What  sorrows,  hates,  what  dead  past  loves  still-burning, 
Couldst  thou  relate,  thine  ancient  pages  turning; 
0  thou,  who  seemest  ever  new  lores  learning, 
0  unf orgetting,  wondrous  Cape  of  Storms  ? 

0  tell  me  what  wild  past  lies  here  enchanted : 
What  borders  thou  dost  guard,  what  regions  haunted  ? 
What  type  of  man  a  little  era  flaunted. 
Then  passed  and  slept  ?    0  tell  me  thou  undaunted. 
Thou  aged  as  eld,  0  mighty  Cape  of  Storms ! 

0  speak,  if  thou  canst  speak,  what  cities  sleeping  ? 
What  busy  streets  ?  what  laughing  and  wfiat  weeping  ? 


r 


TO   THE  RIDEAU  RIVER  127 

What  vanished  deeds  and  hopes  like  dust  upheaping, 
Hast  thou  long  held  within  thy  silent  keeping  ? 
0  wise  old  cape,  thou  rugged  Cape  of  Storms ! 

These  all  have  passed,  as  all  that's  living  passes ; 
Our  thoughts  they  wither  as  the  centuries'  grasses, 
That  bloom  and  rot  in  bleak,  wild  lake  morasses : 
But  still  thou  loomest  where  Superior  glasses 
Himself  in  surge  and  sleep,  0  Cape  of  Storms ! 

And  thou  wilt  stay  when  we  and  all  our  dreaming 
Lie  low  in  dust.    The  age's  last  moon-beaming 
Will  shed  on  thy  wild  front  its  final  gleaming ; 
For  last  of  all  that's  real  and  all  that's  seeming, 
Thou  still  wilt  linger,  mighty  Cape  of  Storms  I 


To  the  Rideau  River 

AcKOSS  the  peace  of  all  the  night's  great  healing. 
Beneath  the  silence  of  the  dark's  hushed  deep, 

A  phosphorescent,  ghostly  spirit  stealing, 
You  softly  slide,  a  sleep  within  a  sleep. 

You  slip  and  shine  by  boughs  that  bend  to  kiss  you, 
You  dream  by  curved  banks  of  shimmering  green; 

And  where  you  swerve  the  alien  meadows  miss  you. 
But  happy  are  the  banks  you  glide  between. 

You  drift,  a  solace  to  the  great  woods  under, 
Wimpling  wide  in  many  a  watery  moon ; 

And  when  you  sing,  the  hours,  in  soft-eyed  wonder, 
Lean,  finger  on  lip,  entranced  by  your  tune. 

Out  by  dim,  hazy  shores,  in  reedy  shallows. 
The  drowsy  cattle  sun  them  in  the  heat; 


128  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And,  far  from  woody  slopes  and  ragged  fallows, 
A  lazy  wind  goes  loitering  in  the  wheat. 

You  fill  the  summer  with  your  magic,  chanting 
Your  sleepy  music  out  by  field  and  fell ; 

And  spirits  elusive  in  your  bosom  haunting 
Sleep  like  the  genie  in  the  Arabian  well. 

In  low  green  capes,  by  country  ways  descending, 
Where  your  tides  wind  by  many  a  braided  shore, 

The  great  cool  elms,  the  heaven  and  water  blending. 
Mirror  their  ghosts  within  thy  shimmering  floor. 

By  pebbly  shoals  whereon  your  tides  are  driven 
In  silvery  surge  and  far-heard  slumbrous  song. 

Your  sleeping  shores  and  the  white  hosts  of  heaven 
Hearken  your  tender  droppings  all  night  long. 

Where  out  along  the  dusk,  all  white-mist  laden. 
You  cradle  deep  in  wells  of  azure  light, — 

Like  to  the  virgin  dreams  of  some  sweet  maiden, — 
In  your  glad  breast  the  million  stars  of  night. 

Across  your  silver  bars  whereby  you  glisten. 
Oblivious  of  the  throes  of  earth's  wild  mart. 

You  leap  and  sing,  and  then  you  lie  and  listen. 
As  if  to  hear  the  throbbing  of  your  heart. 

Unfettered  child  of  nature's  mirth  and  gladness. 
Sing,  sing  and  drift  by  field  and  country  way ; 

Fill  earth  and  men  with  thy  divine,  sweet  madness. 
With  glad  contentment  gird  both  night  and  day ; 

Till  care  and  pain  one  troublous  dream  dissolving. 
Across  the  splendor  of  thy  misty  bars ; 

We  only  know  the  glorious  day  revolving, 
Nighfs  majesty,  and  her  eternal  stars. 


THE    WIND  DANCER  129 


The  Wind  Dancer 

When  ripened  Summer  dreams  and  sleeps. 

And  her  hushed  silence  teems 
With  golden  gleam  of  mystic  drowse 

And  silvern  trance  of  dreams; 

And  all  the  woods  are  held  in  moods 

Of  slumber  sunbeam  spun. 
There  is  an  elfin  dancer,  light. 

Who  dances  in  the  sun. 

And  stands  and  claps  his  shining  hands 

And  bids  the  mirth  move  on 
Of  somp  invisible,  mystic  rout 

The  slumbrous  day  upon. 

And  they,  the  revellers,  dim,  unseen, 
Who  chase  his  phantom  mood ; 

Perchance  the  naiads  of  the  stream. 
The  dryads  of  the  wood. 

For  when  a  wind-breath  wakes  the  world 

And  stirs  each  drowsed  tree. 
Like  magic  silver  works  his  bow 

In  fiddlings  merrily. 

And  all  his  elfin  revellers  dance 

By  glint  of  wood  and  stream. 
Till  all  the  drowsed  day  about 

Goes  dancing  in  his  dream. 

And  when  in  shrouded  moonlight  glooms 
The  woodland  sighs  and  frets. 


130  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Along  the  snowy  dream  he  shakes 
His  silvern  castanets. 

Till  phantom  creatures  of  the  night. 
Shy  satyrs,  gnomes  and  fauns 

Foot  to  his' music  mad  and  sweet 
Along  the  mossy  lawns. 

He  is  the  master  of  the  mirth 
Of  field  and  stream  and  tree; 

And  of  the  dreamers  of  the  wood, 
The  lord  of  revels,  he. 

Till  Summer  and  her  dream  depart 
And  leaf  and  gleam  be  done, 

He  holds  the  whole  world's  laughing  heart. 
This  dancer  in  the  sun. 


Winter 

Over  these  wastes,  these  endless  wastes  of  white, 
Bounding  about  far,  lonely  regions  of  sky. 

Winter  the  wild-tongued  cometh  with  clamorous  might; 
Deep-sounding  and  surgent,  his  armies  of  storm  sweep 

by, 

Wracking  the  skeleton  woods  and  opens  that  lie 
Far  to  the  seaward  reaches  that  thunder  and  moan, 
Where  barrens  and  mists  and  beaches  forever  are  lone. 

Morning  shrinks  closer  to  night,  and  nebulous  noon 
Hangs,  a  dull  lanthorn,  over  the  windings  of  snows; 

And  like  a  pale  beech-leaf  fluttering  upward,  the  moon 
Out  of  the  short  day  wakens  and  blossoms  and  grows. 


WINTER  131 

And  builds  her  wan  beauty  like  to  the  ghost  of  a  rose 
Over  the  soundless  silences,  shrunken,  that  dream 
Their  prisoned  deathliness  under  the  gold  of  her  beam. 

Wide  is  the  arch  of  the  night,  blue  spangled  with  fire. 
From  wizened  edge  to  edge  of  the  shriveled-up  earth, 

Where  the  chords  of  the  dark  are  as  tense  as  the  strings 
of  a  lyre 
Strung  by  the  fingers  of  silence  ere  sound  had  birth. 
With  far-off,  alien  echoes  of  morning  and  mirth ; 

That  reach  the  tuned  ear  of  the  spirit,  beaten  upon 

By  the  soundless  tides  of  the  wonder  and  glory  of  dawn. 

The  stars  have  faded  and  blurred  in  the  spaces  of  night. 
And  over  the  snow-fringed  edges  wakens  the  morn, 

Pallid  and  heatless,  lifting  its  lustreless  light 

Over  the  skeleton  woodlands  and  stretches  forlorn ; 
Touching  with  pallor  the  forests,  storm-haggard  and 
torn: 

Till  out  of  the  earth's  edge  the  winter-god  rises  acold, 

And  strikes  on  the  iron  of  the  month  with  finger  of  gold. 

Then  down  the  whole  harp  of  the  morning  a  vibration 

rings, 

Thrilling  the  heart  of  the  dull  earth  with  throbbings 

and  dreams 

Of  far-blown  odors  and  music  of  long-vanished  Springs ; 

Till  the  lean,  stalled  cattle  low  for  the  lapping  of 

streams. 
And  the  clamorous  cock,  to  the  south,  where  his  dung- 
hill steams. 
Looks  the  sun  in  the  eye,  and  prophesies,  hopeful  and 

clear. 
The  stir  in  the  breast  of  the  wrinkled,  bleak  rime  of  the 
year. 
9 


132  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Spring  Spirit 

I,  POOR  Satyr  in  the  glade, 
Saw  a  wonder,  half  afraid, 
When  the  year  at  leafy  time 
Held  all  essences  at  prime; 
Knew  a  miracle  of  dream 
By  wide  sward  and  azure  gleam. 
Soft  upon  a  breathing  day. 
When  all  earth,  expectant,  lay, 
Worn  of  Winter,  answering 
To  the  vast  awakening. 
Where  the  woodland  yearned  afar 
To  a  dream  of  drifting  star. 

When  the  lonely  days  were  done, 
And  those  magic  ones  had  spun 
All  the  woodland  in  a  lace 
Over  coy  earth's  hidden  face; 
Knew  a  presence  like  a  wind. 
Soft  at  Summer,  or  a  kind 
Dream  of  dawning  round  the  sky, 
Eosy  over  hillroofs  high. 

Saw  a  vision,  half  a  mist, 
Pearl  and  glowing,  cloudland  kissed. 
Saw  a  vision,  heard  a  voice, 
Bidding  all  earth's  kin  rejoice, 
Like  as  leaves  are  lightly  stirred 
By  a  passing  wind  or  bird. 

Held  a  vision  of  a  face 
Peering  out  of  purple  lace, 


IN  THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE   TREES        133 

Subtle  weft  of  morns  and  eves, 
Fair  as  Summer  when  she  grieves 
O'er  her  tender  deaths  of  love, 
Bending  burgeoning  earth  above; 
Lips  of  beauty,  eyes  of  dream. 
In  whose  opalescent  gleam 
All  the  hopes  of  earth  and  sky 
And  visions  sweet  of  life  did  lie. 
In  this  wonder- joy  I  grew 
Swift  to  mood  of  bird  and  blue. 
Sweet,  this  dream  of  life  to  scan. 
Love,  immortal — baptized,  man. 


In  the  Strength  of  the  Trees 

Lorn,  hooded  woodlands,  wintry,  bare. 
Against  the  wild  liTovember  sky ; 

With  what  hushed  patience,  in  your  care. 
You  let  the  biting  blast  go  by. 

It  roars  like  madness  round  the  world. 
And  strikes  you  like  a  shoreward  sea. 

Soon  far  its  pinions  rude  are  hurled. 
And  you,  erect  and  free. 

Beneath  the  comfort  of  your  sere. 
Bleak  dream  of  loud  November  woe. 

The  frail,  fair  children  of  the  year 

Are  cradled  in  your  heart's  warm  glow. 

There  sheltered  'neath  your  iron  might, 
That  fronts  the  icy  wolfhound's  breath. 

The  hopes  of  all  the  year  lie  light. 
In  frosty  dream  of  death. 


134  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

I,  too,  have  felt  the  wintry  rage 
And  tooth  of  rude,  unkindly  fate ; 

"Would  that  I  might  its  blasts  engage, 
Like  you,  possess  my  soul  and  wait : — 

Like  you,  in  patience,  meet  the  storms 
Of  life's  November's  surge  and  stress ; 

Strong  'gainst  its  ill  of  iron  alarms. 
Tender  toward  its  great  helplessness. 

So  build  my  life  like  yours  above 
Earth's  dream  of  frail  futurity. 

In  all  that  godlike  strength  that  love 
Ordained  that  it  should  be. 


Autumn 

Season  of  languorous  gold  and  hazy  drouth, 

Of  nature's  beauty  ripened  to  the  core. 
When  over  fens  far-calling  birds  wing  south, 
Filling  the  air  with  lonesome  dreams  of  yore, 
And  memories  that  haunt  but  come  no  more; 
Maiden  of  veiled  eyes  and  sunny  mouth, 
Dreaming  between  hushed  heat  and  frosted  lands ; 
With  fire-mists  in  thine  eyes,  and  red  leaves  in  thy 
hands. 

Spirit  of  Autumn,  siren  of  all  the  year. 

Who  dost  my  soul  with  glamouries  entwine; 

As  some  old  trunk,  deep  in  the  forest  drear. 
Is  gloried  by  some  crimson,  clinging  vine; 
So  thou  dost  fill  my  heart  with  haunted  wine. 

When  in  the  still,  glad  days  by  uplands  sere, 


AUTUMN  135 

With  slow-drawn  pace,  I  seek  thy  slumbrous  moods, 
In  thy  hushed,  dreamy  haunts  of  fields  and  skies  and 
woods. 

How  often  in  the  still,  rich  frosted  days, 

Down  the  slow  hours  of  some  tranced  afternoon. 
Have  my  feet  wandered  in  a  mad,  sweet  maze. 
Hunting  the  wind  that,  like  some  haunting  tune, 
Peopled  with  memories  all  the  great,  gold  swoon 
Of  rustling  woodlands,  streams  and  leafy  ways. 
Ever  eluding,  fluting,  sweet,  before 
Fading  to  rest  at  last  in  gold-green  leafy  core. 

Far  out  beside  some  great,  hill-cradled  stream, 

Winding  along  in  sinuous  blue  for  miles. 
By  tented  elms,  in  fields  that  sleep  and  dream. 

Low  marsh-lands  where  the  warm  sun  slopes  and 

smiles. 
Where  through  the  haze  the  harsh  grasshopper  files 
His  rasping  note,  the  pallid  asters  gleam. 
And  golden-rod  flames  in  the  smoky  light. 
While  far,  blue  fading  hills  in  miste  elude  my  sight. 

Or  out  in  maple  woods  where  companies 

Of  sombre  trunks  lift  the  soft  light  between. 
And  little  sunbeams  steal  with  ruddy  eyes. 
Sifting  adown  the  canopies  of  green ; 
Spirit  of  sadness,  here  you  move  unseen 
Down  tented  avenues  where  the  long  light  lies 
From  morn  till  even,  through  the  silent  hours. 
Where  over  all  the  day  frets  through  in  sunny  showers. 

On  silent  nights,  grey  mists  creep  near  the  ground, 
And  airs  are  keen  an^  stars  grow  sharp  and  clear, 


136  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

And  phantom  frosts  steal  in  and  make  no  sound 
Down  the  long,  haunted  river,  bleak  and  drear, 
Biting  with  death  the  sedges  dank  and  sere, 
And  ever  the  wan  moon  rises  large  and  round 
Over  the  woodlands,  flooding  with  iced  dream 
The  far-hushed,  ghostly  face  of  wood  and  field  and 
stream. 

On  frosty  mornings  in  the  crimsoning  woods ; 

Or  where  the  long,  low  grassy  meadows  shine, 
Wimpling  and  steaming  out  through  hazy  moods 
Of  dewy  glories  to  the  far  sky-line ; 
And  pearly  brooks,  a  company  divine, 
Go,  softly  chattering,  under  smoky  hoods; 
I  love  to  walk  abroad  and  con  with  you 
Dream  thoughts  that  are  most  sad  and  beautiful  and 
true. 


The  Journey 

The  wind  of  the  day  blows  downward 
From  the  moor  and  the  far  lone  height ; 

And  sinks  to  rest  on  the  brooding  breast 
Of  the  hushed  and  mothering  night. 

The  river  sweeps  from  the  mountain 

To  find  its  peace  in  the  sea ; 
But  0,  my  heart,  thou  must  yearn  on 

To  all  eternity. 

Eestless,  unsatisfied,  longing, 

Evermore  doomed  to  roam ; 
For  thou  hast  gone  on  a  journey  long 

To  those  hills  of  the  soul's  far  home. 


THE  MESSAGE   OF  NIGHT  137 


The  Message  of  Night 

I  STAND  beneath  the  night's  wide  vast. 
The  awful  curtains,  dim,  out-rolled; 

And  know  time  but  a  tempest  blast, 
And  life  a  thing  the  hand  may  hold — 

A  thing  the  Nubian,  Dark,  may  shut 

In  his  closed  palm-grasp,  black  and  rude. 

Like  dust  in  a  kernel  of  a  nut 
'Mid  vasts  of  night's  infinitude. 

And  Eeason  whispers :  Why  debate 

A  moment's  thought,  why  breathe  this  breath? 
For  all  are  gone,  the  low,  the  great ; 

And  mighty  lord  of  all  is  Death. 

Yea,  Egypt  built  her  ruined  dream. 
And  Greece  knew  beauty's  perfect  bliss. 

Then  Science  fanned  her  taper  gleam — 
And  all  for  this,  and  all  for  this : 

That  when  the  fires  of  time  burned  out, 
The  earth  a  barren  ball  should  roll. 

With  wrinkled  winter  wrapt  about, 
And  night  eterne  from  pole  to  pole. 

And  all  the  dreams  of  seers  and  kings. 
The  pomps  and  pageants  of  the  past. 

The  loves  and  vain  imaginings. 
Ground  into  glacial  dust  at  last. 


188  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Ah!  no  such  creed,  my  soul,  for  thee. 
As,  underneath  the  night's  wide  bars. 

They  speak  with  love's  infinity — 
God's  wondrous  angels  of  the  stars. 

And  something  in  my  heart — some  light. 
Some  splendor,  science  cannot  weigh — 

Beats  round  the  shores  of  this  dim  night 
The  surges  of  a  mightier  day. 

Though  all  the  loves  of  those  who  loved 

Be  vanished  into  empty  air. 
Though  all  the  dreams  of  ages  proved 

But  wrecks  of  beautiful  despair. 

Though  all  the  dust  of  those  who  fought 
Be  scattered  to  the  midnight's  main, 

No  noble  life  was  lived  for  naught ; 
No  martyr  death  was  died  in  vain. 


The  Dream  Divine 

Who  hath  no  moods  for  beauty  doth  not  know 
The  inward  greatness  of  this  moving  world. 
My  heart  was  troubled  with  the  care  of  life 
And  mine  own  driven  nature,  when  I  came 
Out  to  a  place  where  'mid  the  roofs  of  trees, 
A  single  gleam,  the  evening  sky  shone  through 
In  simple  beauty,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
Once  more  as  in  the  child-like  olden  days 
When   earth's   folk   dreamed   God's   windows 

opened  wide 
And  let  in  heaven,    Thus  it  seemed  to.  me, 


TITAN  139 

For  on  my  soul  a  sweetness  and  a  calm 
Fell  like  a  mantle ;  and  the  joy  of  one 
Who  hearkens  to  inward  music;  all  the  world 
Seemed  in  an  instant  changed :  the  garish  streets 
Were  no  more  common;  even  the  woes  of  men 
Assumed  a  greatness,  and  mine  own  dread  care 
Grew  dim,  remote,  a  part  of  yesterday. 
It  is  a  marvel  how  this  magic  works, 
That  nature  hath  such  influence  over  men, 
To  raise  them  from  the  common,  and  redeem 
The  soul  from  sordid  evils,  lift  to  beauty. 
Build  o'er  our  life  a  splendid  weft  of  dream. 
By  one  small  rift  of  dawn  or  night  divine. 


Tit 


an 


Titan — he  loves  a  breezy  hill 

Away  above  us  in  the  clouds, 
Where  sun  and  wind  are  never  still. 

And  fold  it  round  with  misty  shrouds. 

He  loves  the  great  world  stretching  out 
Into  dim  sky;  he  loves  the  flowers 

And  trees,  the  brooks  that  laugh  and  shout; 
And  often  he  will  sit  for  hours 

And  gaze  into  the  distant  rim 

Of  all  things  made  of  earth  and  air, 

That  rounds  the  horizon  vague  and  dim. 
Until  his  great,  deep  eyes  do  wear 

A  look  of  awe,  in  thoughts  of  One, 
Invisible,  Eternal,  Great, 


140  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Who  built  from  out  the  burning  sun 
This  glorious  world  with  all  its  state. 

And  through  the  clouds,  that  like  a  crown 
Of  snow  encircle  his  hill's  great  head. 

Sometimes  ihe  sun  in  peering  down 
Will  find  him  sleeping  on  his  bed 

Of  clover  lawn,  with  blossoms  that  strew 
Themselves  like  love,  and  round  him  wave ; 

And  all  the  night  the  winds  blow  through 
His  dreams  as  through  a  cave. 

Brawny,  huge-limbed,  in  frame  and  mind 
True  type  of  man,  in  heart  a  boy. 

Who  loves  the  music  of  the  wind. 
Who  yet  is  innocent  in  joy. 

Whose  heart  is  not  a  cavern  of  doubt 
And  dark  foul  hates,  with  passions  rife; 

His  dreams  are  all  of  flowers  about. 
His  life  is  part  of  nature's  life. 

Though  great  in  strength  of  manly  form. 
His  heart  is  truest  tenderness ; 

Strong  as  the  spirit  of  the  storm. 

Soft  as  the  rain-drops  when  they  press 

With  cooling  lips  the  parched  flowers 

That  peer  like  young  birds  from  their  nest. 

Mouths  gaping  for  the  much-loved  showers. 
That  cool  and  nourish  Nature's  breast. 


TITAN  141 

And  there  I  know  he  sits  at  dawn, 
Fresh  from  his  cave  of  sleep,  with  eyes 

Clear  as  the  sky  above,  the  lawn 
Eesplendent  with  a  thousand  dyes. 

A  line  of  red  that  lights  the  east 

And  widens  over  sky  and  sea 
In  purple  and  gold,  and  snowy  fleeced, 

Where  mountain  peaks  loom  high  and  free. 

And  when  pale  May  with  tears  the  earth 

Has  watered,  and  the  rosier  June 
To  balm  and  bloom  has  given  birth. 

And  strung  the  world  to  rarest  tune. 

Then  I  shall  hie  to  Titan's  hill 
Where  far  above  among  the  clouds 

The  sun  and  wind  are  never  still. 

But  fold  it  round  with  misty  shrouds. 

And  there  'mid  lawns  and  grassy  nooks. 
The  great  world  stretching  far  below, 

Here,  far  from  men  and  care  and  books, 
Where  only  streams  of  nature  flow. 

And  he  shall  teach  me,  he  who  drinks 
Where  nature's  fountains  brimming  run, 

Who  forged  in  thought  the  burning  links 
That  bind  the  great  zones  of  the  sun. 

Whose  nightly  torches  are  the  stars 

That  look  with  ever-trusting  eyes 
Across  the  midnight's  gloomy  bars, 

And  he  will  make  me  strong  and  wise. 


142  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Morning 

When  I  behold  how  out  of  ruined  night 
Filled  with  all  weirds  of  haunted  ancientness. 
And  dreams  and  phantasies  of  pale  distress, 
Is  builded,  beam  by  beam,  the  splendid  light, 
The  opalescent  glory,  gem  bedight. 
Of  dew-emblazoned  morning;  when  I  know 
Such  wondrous  hopes,  such  luminous  beauties 

grow 
From  out  earth's  shades  of  sadness  and  affright ; 

0,  then,  my  heart,  amid  thy  questioning  fear^ 
Dost  thou  not  whisper :  He  who  buildeth  thus 
From  wrecks  of  dark  such  wonders  at  his  will. 
Can  re-create  from  out  death's  night  for  us 
The  marvels  of  a  morning  gladder  still 
Than  ever  trembled  into  beauty  here? 


The  Earth-Spirit 

Down  these  golden  uplands,  I 
Move  with  sunny  winds  and  sky, 
Where  the  ghosts  of  waters  are, 
To  the  gates  of  dusk  and  star. 

And  I  know  that  as  I  go. 
She  whose  bosom  is  the  snow 
Of  the  birch  and  aspen  tree. 
Dreams  these  sunny  dreams  with  me. 

She  whose  glance  and  gleam  of  hair 
Are  the  ruddy  spinning,  rare. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FURROW  143 

Of  the  gold  glint  of  the  sun 
In  the  wood  when  day  is  done; 

She  whose  inner  speech  is  heard 
In  the  hush  of  wind  and  bird. 
And  whose  soul  is  as  a  star 
Cradled  where  the  hill-lakes  are. 


Rododactulos 

The  night  blows  outward  in  a  mist. 
And  all  the  world  the  sun  has  kissed. 

Along  the  golden  rim  of  sky, 

A  thousand  snow-piled  vapors  lie. 

And  by  the  wood  and  mist-clad  stream, 
The  Maiden  Morn  stands  still  to  dream. 


The  End  of  the  Furrow 

When  we  come  to  the  end  of  the  furrow. 
When  our  last  day's  work  is  done, 

We  will  drink  of  the  long  red  shaft  of  light 
That  slants  from  the  westering  sun. 

We  will  turn  from  the  field  of  our  labor. 
From  the  warm  earth  glad  and  brown. 

And  wend  our  feet  up  that  village  street. 
And  with  our  folk  lie  down. 

Yea,  after  the  long  toil,  surcease, 

Eest  to  the  hearts  that  roam, 
When  we  join  in  the  mystic  silence  of  eve. 

The  glad  procession  home. 


144  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Pageantry  of  Death 

Once  more,  once  more,  with  fateful  sombre  tread. 
The  wheeling  yejir  brings  splendid  Autumn  in, 

Hushed  with  sad  dreams  of  memory  and  the  dead. 
And  icy  touch  of  Winter  sere  and  thin : 

Slowly  with  thoughtful  pace  the  hours  go  round 

While,  leaf  by  leaf,  the  year  slips  faltering  to  the 
ground. 

With  what  a  glory  lifts  the  morning  light 
O'er  mists  and  dreams  beyond  the  dripping  woods, 

Where  ambering  brooks  steal  under  wakening  night. 
Mirroring  in  mists  the  year's  bright  moods 

Of  morning,  peace  and  life  and  leafy  glow ; 

Soon,  soon,  too  sadly  soon,  ghost-wound  in  ghostly  snow. 

Down  past  the  rich,  ripe  splendors  of  the  year. 
The  glad  days  pale  and  sadden  to  the  Fall, 

Loosening,  as  memory  lets  go  tear  by  tear. 
The  sweet  old  thoughts,  the  dreams  beyond  recall ; 

The  splendid  hopes,  the  joys,  the  golden  gleam, 

That  now  fade  out  in  mists  beyond  the  hills  of  dream. 

And  now  when  nights  grow  old  and  days  decline. 
And  veiled  September  glories  all  the  world 

With  those  glad  lights  of  Autumn's  hues  divine. 
By  hill  and  stream  in  azure  vapors  furled. 

Over  the  earth  a  solemn  rapture  flows 

Of  death's  sad  doomful  march  where  all  that's  mortal 
goes. 

To  him  who,  wandering  o'er  the  upland  fields, 

Or  by  some  noonday  shrunken  slumbering  stream. 


THE  PAGEANTRY  OF  DEATH  145 

Where  reverie  her  sweetest  visions  yields 

In  realms  of  inward  thought  and  reverent  dream, 
There  comes  a  sense  of  sadness  undefined, 
That  speaks  in  each  dead  leaf,  or  whispers  down  the 
wind. 

All  day  far  out  across  the  azure  hills. 

The  splendid  ruined  woods  all  wrecked  with  rains. 
Or  river  reaches,  where  the  distance  fills. 

With  wine  of  softness,  all  the  haze-lit  plains ; 
And  lonely  uplands  where  some  garrulous  jay 
Eeverberates  his  note  along  the  lonesome  day; 

Here  'mid  these  austere  glories  of  the  year. 

The  spirit  of  lofty  sadness  dwells  alone ; 
Where,  hushed,  the  lorn  heart  grieves  without  a  tear. 

In  this  high  house  where  winds  like  ocean  moan ; 
Or  wild-blown  sunsets,  where  bleak  woodlands  sway 
About  the  dying  borders  of  the  splendid  desolat:;  day. 

So  fades  September.    Down  each  country  lane. 

Where  withered  the  summer  in  the  late  August  days. 

And  weeds,  once  radiant,  drenched  of  wind  and  rain, 
X ow  bronzed  and  ragged,  linger  along  the  ways ; 

Here  aster  and  gentian  lift  their  fringed  blue. 

Like  some  sweet  second  summer,  the  haze-filled  sunlight 
through. 

Near  and  afar  by  wood  and  field  and  stream. 
There  sleeps  an  eerie  mantle  of  misty  light. 

Transforming  all,  building  this  mid-day  dream. 
Like  some  ghost-phantom  of  the  pale  moonlight; 

"\Miere  all  the  distance  islanded  in  a  breath. 

Seems  some  illusion  built  from  out  the  fogs  of  death. 


146  POEMS  OF  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Soon,  soon,  too  soon,  this  pageantry  will  pass; 

And  all  the  gaudy  garments  the  world  puts  on. 
Of  crimsoning  leaf,  and  mists  and  bronzed  grass, 

Like  some  magician's  dream,  be  vanished  and  gone ; 
Leaving  the  year  a  hollow  iron  urn. 
Wherein  no  more"  love's  fires  do  glimmer  and  leap  and 
bum. 

Nor  should  we  sorrow  more  than  sadness  ought, 
Nor  grieve  to  tread  this  abbey  of  life's  years; 

Is  there  not  splendid  beauty  in  the  thought 

That  we  have  such  great  endings  of  our  tears ; — 

That  very  Nature  puts  her  glories  on, 

In  these  sad  haunted  days,  for  all  her  bright  ones  gone. 

Even  as  we  dream,  in  maddening  rage  doth  rouse 
Old  lorn  October,  storm  bloused,  Autumn  blown; 

Eoaring  like  ocean  upon  this  ruined  house, 

Shaking  in  thunders  its  desolate  splendors  down; 

Till  not  one  leaf  goes  shuddering  in  its  flight. 

Where  build  in  icy  caverns  the  windy  fires  of  night. 


An  October  Evening 

The  woods  are  haggard  and  lonely. 
The  skies  are  hooded  for  snow. 

The  moon  is  cold  in  heaven. 
And  the  grasses  are  sere  below. 

The  bearded  swamps  are  breathing 
A  mist  from  meres  afar. 

And  grimly  the  Great  Bear  circles 
Under  the  pale  Pole  Star. 


TO   THE  BLACKBERRY  147 

There  is  never  a  voice  in  heaven, 

Nor  ever  a  sound  on  earth, 
"Where  the  spectres  of  winter  are  rising 

Over  the  night's  wan  girth. 

There  is  slumher  and  death  in  the  silence, 
There  is  hate  in  the  winds  so  keen ; 

And  the  flash  of  the  north's  great  sword-blade 
Circles  its  cruel  sheen. 

The  world  grows  aged  and  wintry, 

Love's  face  peaked  and  white; 
And  death  is  kind  to  the  tired  ones 

Who  sleep  in  the  north  to-night. 


To  the  Blackberry 

I  FIND  thee  by  the  country-side. 

With  angry  mailed  thorn; 
When  first  with  dreamy  woods  and  skies 

The  summer  time  is  born. 

By  every  fence  and  woodland  path 
Thy  milk-white  blossom  blows ; 

In  lonely  haunts  of  mist  and  dream. 
The  summer  airs  enclose. 

And  when  the  freighted  August  days 

Far  into  autumn  lean, 
Sweet,  luscious,  on  the  laden  branch. 

Thy  ripened  fruit  is  seen. 
10 


148  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Dark  gypsy  of  the  glowing  year. 

Child  of  the  sim  and  rain, 
While  dreaming  by  thy  tangled  path 

There  comes  to  me  again 

The  memory  of  a  happy  boy, 
Barefooted,  freed  from  school, 

"Who  plucked  your  rich  lip-staining  fruit. 
By  road-ways  green  and  cool. 

And  tossed  in  glee  his  ragged  cap. 

With  laughter  to  the  sky; 
Oblivious  in  the  glow  of  youth 

How  the  mad  world  went  by; 

Nor  cared  in  realms  of  summer  time. 
By  haunts  of  bough  and  vine. 

If  Nicholas  lost  the  Volga, 
Or  Bismarck  held  the  Ehine. 

0  time  when  shade  with  sun  was  blent. 

So  like  an  April  shower. 
Life  has  its  flower  and  thorn  and  fruit. 

But  thou  wert  all  its  flower. 

When  every  day  Nepenthe  lent. 
To  drown  its  deepest  sorrow. 

And  evening  skies  but  prophesied 
A  glorious  skied  to-morrow. 

0,  long  gone  days  of  sunlit  youth, 
I'd  live  through  years  of  pain. 

Once  more  life's  fate  of  thorn  and  fruit 
To  dream  your  flower  again. 


A    WINTER'S  NIGHT  149 

Before  the  Dawn 

One  hour  before  the  flush  of  dawn 
That  all  the  rosy  daylight  weaves. 

Here  in  my  bed,  far  overhead 
I  hear  the  swallows  in  the  eaves. 

I  cannot  see,  but  well  I  know 

That  out  around  the  dusky  grey. 
Across  dark  lakes  and  voiced  streams. 

The  blind,  dumb  vapors  feel  their  way. 

And  here  and  there  a  star  looks  down 

Out  of  the  fog  that  holds  the  sea 
In  its  embrace,  while  up  the  lands 

Some  cock  makes  music  lustily. 

And  out  within  the  dreamy  woods. 
Or  in  some  clover  blossomed  lawn. 

The  blinking  robin  pipes  his  mate 
To  wake  the  music  of  the  dawn. 


A  Winter's  Night 

Shadowy  white. 
Over  the  fields  are  the  sleeping  fences. 

Silent  and  still  in  the  fading  light. 
As  the  wintry  night  commences. 

The  forest  lies 
On  the  edge  of  the  heavens,  bearded  and  brown ; 

He  pulls  still  closer  his  cloak,  and  sighs, 
As  the  evening  winds  come  down. 


160  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  snows  are  wound 
As  a  winding  sheet  on  the  river's  breast, 

And  the  shivering  blast  goes  wailing  round. 
As  a  spirit  that  cannot  rest. 

Calm  sleeping  night! 
Whose  jewelled  couch  reflects  the  million  stars 

That  murmur  silent  music  in  their  flight — 
0,  naught  thy  fair  sleep  mars. 

And  all  a  dream — 
Thy  spangled  forest  in  its  frosty  sleep. 

Thy  pallid  moon  that  sheds  its  misty  beam 
O'er  waters  dead  and  deep. 


Dawn  in  the  June  Woods 

!When  over  the  edge  of  night 
The  stars  pale  one  by  one. 

And  out  of  his  streams  of  light 
Eising,  the  great  red  sun 

Lifteth  his  splendors  up 
Over  the  hush  of  the  world. 

And  draining  night's  ebon  cup, 
Leaveth  some  stars  impearled. 

Still  on  its  crystal  rim, 
Fading  like  bubbles  away, 

As  out  of  their  cloud-meadows  dim. 
The  dawn  winds  blow  in  this  way: 


SEPTEMBER  IN  THE  LA  URENTIAN  HILLS    151 

Then  bathed  in  cool  dewy  wells. 

Old  longings  of  life  renew, 
Till  here  in  these  morning  dells 

The  dreamings  of  earth  come  true: 

As  up  each  sun-jewelled  slope. 

Over  the  night-hallowed  land. 
Wonder  and  Beauty  and  Hope 

"Walk  silently  hand  in  hand. 


September  in  the  Laurentian  Hills 

Already  Winter  in  his  sombre  round. 

Before  his  time,  hath  touched  these  hills  austere 
With  lonely  flame.    Last  night,  without  a  sound, 

The  ghostly  frost  walked  out  by  wood  and  mere. 
And  now  the  sumach  curls  his  frond  of  fire. 

The  aspen-tree  reluctant  drops  his  gold, 
And  down  the  gullies  the  North's  wild  vibrant  lyre 

Rouses  the  bitter  armies  of  the  cold. 

O'er  this  short  afternoon  the  night  draws  down. 
With  ominous  chill,  across  these  regions  bleak; 

Wind-beaten  gold,  the  sunset  fades  around 
The  purple  loneliness  of  crag  and  peak, 

Leaving  the  world  an  iron  house  wherein 

Nor  love  nor  life  nor  hope  hath  ever  been. 


152  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Indian  Summer 

Along  the  line  of  smoky  hills 

The  crimson  forest  stands, 
And  all  the  day  the  blue- jay  calls 

Throughout  the  autumn  lands. 

Now  by  the  brook  the  maple  leans 

With  all  his  glory  spread. 
And  all  the  sumachs  on  the  hills 

Have  turned  their  green  to  red. 

Now  by  great  marshes  wrapt  in  mist. 
Or  past  some  river's  mouth. 

Throughout  the  long,  still  autumn  day 
Wild  birds  are  flying  south. 


Song 

When  the  morning  lifts  in  light 
Over  misty  wood  and  stream. 

And  from  heaven's  azure  height 
Falls  the  silence  like  a  dream  ;^ 

Then  the  joy-bird  on  his  tree 

Pipes  of  love  and  hope  to  me : 
(Wake  up  rose  of  morning.) 

When  the  noonday  lies  in  light 
Over  woodland  hill  and  deep, 

Fleecy  cloudlands  furled  in  flight. 
Over  fields  enmeshed  in  sleep : — 


AUTUMN  LEAVES  153 

Then  the  sad-bird  pipes  to  me 
Songs  of  days  that  used  to  be: 
(Bed  my  rose  of  dreaming.) 

When  the  evening  dies  in  light 
Down  the  purple  miles  of  dream. 

Lost  in  jewelled  shoals  of  night. 
Where  a  myriad  glories  gleam : — 

Then  the  death-bird  pipes  to  me 

Trom  the  shadow  of  his  tree : — 

(Fold  my  flower  for  sleeping.) 


Autumn  Leaves 

Bright  gloried  children  of  the  year's  late  splendors, 

By  the  wild  night-wind  strewn; — 
Not  like  mere  hues  of  some  poor  painter's  colors 

Upon  a  palette  thrown : — 

But  something  fairer,  gladder,  greater,  fashioned 

By  that  dread,  unseen  hand 
Of  Him  who  loosens  His  storms,  unfolds  His 
blossoms ; — 

The  might  of  sea  and  land. 

On  this  grey  autumn  mom  of  haunted  sadness. 

All  wrecked  of  wind  and  rain ; 
You  give  to  me  a  glad  ecstatic  vision, 

A  high  exquisite  pain. 

Glad  leaves,  all  ruddy,  russet,  green  and  golden. 

Across  my  pathway  hurled, 
You  bring  a  dream  of  nature's  rarest  beauty 

Into  this  barren  world. 


154  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  through  my  heart  there  glows  a  sense  of  greatness. 

Of  visions, — splendid,  vast; 
Given  by  you,  glad  children  of  the  woodland. 

Upon  my  spirit  cast. 

Winnowed  by  winds  of  night,  far-blown  and  shaken. 
Storm-lashed,  where  great  boughs  swayed; — 

As  I  walk  here,  you  seem  a  magic  pavement 
By  the  wild  midnight  laid. 

And  with  an  inward  sense  of  mystic  beauty 

That  stirs  and  thrills  my  blood. 
You  lift  me  to  a  higher,  truer  kinship. 

Bright  brothers  of  the  wood. 


Elegiac  an&  /IDemortal  IDerse 


VICTORIA  157 


Victoria 

EoLL  out  earth's  muffled  drums,  let  sable  streamers 

flow. 
And  all  Britannia's  might  assume  her  panoply  of  woe! 
Love's  holiest  star  is  gone; 

Wind  wide  the  funeral  wreath ; 
For  she,  our  mightiest,  hath  put  on 

The  majesty  of  death. 
Roll  forth  the  notes  of  woe. 
Let  the  baleful  trumpets  blow 
A  titan  nation's  titan,  heartfelt  throe ; 

'Mid  age  and   storm  and  night  and  blinding 

snow. 
Death,  the  pale  tyrant,  lays  our  loftiest  low. 

Like  some  fair  mask  of  queenly  sleep  she  lies. 

The  mists  of  centuries  in  her  sightless  eyes. 

This  august  woman;  greatest  of  earth's  great; 

Who  ruled  this  splendor,  held  this  Empire's  fate. 

And  built  this  purity  and  white  of  love's  supreme  estate. 

Low,  like  a  lily  broken  on  its  stem. 
Passed  all  her  glory,  filched  her  diadem. 
She  sleeps  at  His  weird  bidding  who  saith.  Peace ! 
And  all  the  loud  world's  mighty  roar  is  hushed  in  love's 

surcease. 
Song  is  an  echo ;  lore  an  idle  tale ; 
Love  but  the  yearning  of  white  lips  that  wail; 
Woe  but  the  weeping  of  wild  autumn  rain ; 
Power  but  the  transient  gust  of  angered  main. 
Thus  fades  all  glory.    But  her  lofty  life, 
That  long  gold  summer  as  mother,  monarch,  wife ; 


158  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

These  bide  and  stay,  'mid  wrecks  that  pass  away. 
Beyond  the  mutability  of  our  poor  day, 
To  live  when  power  is  swept. 

And  pomp  but  clay  in  clay. 
Greater  than  greatness,  stronger  than  iron  power. 
That  makes  eartlr's  Neros  grim,  her  Caesars  dower; 
Hers  was  the  gift  to  girdle  isles  of  peace 
With  woman's  nobleness  and  love's  increase. 

The  century  rang  with  might  of  sword  and  flame 
And  coarser  moods.    Amid  its  blight  she  came. 
And  love  grew  purer,  life  a  holier  name; 
Eeligion  graver,  deeper;  happiness, 
A  part  of  character  to  aid  and  bless ; 
And  softer  grew  life's  heart  of  bitterness. 
Man's  faith  grew  godlier,  chivalry  arose, 
With  virtue  white  as  winter's  winnowed  snows ; 
And  art  and  song  awoke  from  sorrow's  long  repose. 

From  heart  of  suffering  life  and  conscience  went 
On  higher  dreams  of  love  and  action  bent; 
Self-sacrifice  from  her  pure  convents  came. 
And  sweetened  life  of  half  its  bitter  blame ; 
Till  cynic  scorn  crept  out  in  love's 

White  banishment  of  shame. 

So  calm  she  sleeps  in  her  great  southern  isle. 
Wrapt  round  in  silence  drear  of  stormy  death. 
No  more  for  her  wide  earth  or  heaven  will  smile. 
Or  southern  ocean  breathe  his  balmy  breath; 
No  more  for  her  the  love  of  child  and  friend. 
Memory  of  old  happiness  gone  before. 
The  calm,  serene,  of  life's  long  peaceful  end ; 
Sweet  day,  glad  night,  for  her,  no  more !  no  more  I 


VICTORIA  169 

The  rose  of  England,  red,  will  burst  in  bloom ; 
The  lark  in  meadows  rise  as  she  hath  risen ; 
The  heart  of  springtime  break  its  wintry  gloom. 
And  life  its  iron  prison; 

And  far  in  Scotland,  loved  of  her  and  him. 

Her  nearest,  dearest;  laverocks  will  sing; 

And  loch  and  moimtain  clothe  their  glories,  dim. 

With  joy  of  leaf  and  wing — 

But  she  no  more  will  mourn  her  warriors  dead. 

EoU  forth  the  muffled  drum !    The  mighty  will 

That  worked  for  others,  brain  and  heart  are  still ; 

The  august  spirit,  queenly  soul  is  fled! 

Death,  king  of  monarchs  as  of  meaner  men, 

Thundered  her  palace,  o'er  the  drawbridge  crept, 

Filched  life's  rare  coffer,  stole  earth's  pearl;  and  then. 

She  gravely  smiled  and  slept. 

For  us  remains  the  grief,  the  pain,  the  woe. 
The  anguish,  sorrow  and  the  boding  heart; 
For  her,  the  mighty  peace  of  those  who  go 
Forth  from  a  nobler  part. 

From  all  earth's  shores  one  mighty  grief  is  heard ; 
Each  zone  remote,  in  tryst  of  sorrow  wed ; 
The  Briton's  love,  the  alien  spirit  stirred — 
Earth's  great  heart  bleeding  for  earth's  mighty  dead. 

Far  hid  from  us,  in  veils  of  love,  supreme. 
She  knows  now,  gloried,  what  she  prayed  before; 
Storming  love's  fortress,  for  that  one  star-beam, 
God-given  to  mortals  wandering  on  this  shore. 
Where  earth-mists  thicken  into  perilous  night. 
She  greets  her  august  line  of  long  and  kindly  might. 


160  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Wise,  lofty  Alfred,  first  of  her  great  line 

To  build  those  laws  by  which  she  ruled  so  well; 

Heroic  Eichard ;  and,  like  some  Undine, 

The  fated  Mary,  both  of  heaven  and  hell ; 

Great  Edward ;  Henry ;  Charles  of  fateful  death ; 

And  greatest  of  all  her  high  and  storied  line, 

Eare,  great  Elizabeth! 
These  greet  her,  ghostly,  on  that  shadowed  beach, 
Beyond  our  human  tears  and  woe  of  human  speech. 

Above  all  praise  of  ours,  undying  fame. 
Like  sun  on  mountain,  aureoles  her  white  brow. 
We  cry  in  darkness,  creep  to  whence  we  came. 
Our  little  sorrows  and  our  fleeting  show. 
With  all  that  crumbles  whereunto  men  go ; 
But  hers  a  splendor  will  endure  when  time 
And  age  have  wrinkled  up  to  shriveled  scroll. 
The  fame  of  fames  above  all  fame  sublime. 
The  fair  white  memory  of  a  woman's  soul. 

Great  Caesars,  Alexanders,  spoil  a  world. 

Enslave  whole  coasts,  crush  mighty  peoples  down; 

But  greater  greatness  where  love's  flags  are  furled. 

Than  wreck  of  earth's  renown: — 

Her  woman's  kindness  lightened  all  earth's  seas. 

And  drew  to  her  by  silken  cord  of  love. 

What  tyrants  dread,  in  grim  old  centuries. 

Could  not  compel  by  might  of  iron  glove. 

Not  Shakespeare's  art  such  majesty  might  wear; 
Not  Cromwell's  spirit  linked  to  lofty  cause; 
Not  Bonaparte  could  with  her  might  compare; 
Her  greatness  lay  in  being  what  she  was. 
Higher  than  genius,  might  or  kingly  bays — 
The  queenliest  queen,  the  noblest  woman-soul 

Of  all  earth's  mighty  days! 


VICTORIA  161 

Yea,  she  is  gone  who  ruled  but  yesterday, 
Her  pomp,  her  power,  her  glory,  but  a  name ! 
Not  for  its  greatest  will  this  mad  world  stay. 
New  dreams  arise,  new  gods  for  love's  acclaim. 
New  fames,  new  prophets.     Kings,  as  lesser  clay, 
Are  but  the  dead,  gone,  faded  dreams 

Of  dead,  gone  yesterday. 
Life  feeds  on  life,  earth's  glories  wane  and  die. 
Her  mighty  Sidons  and  her  vaunted  T3rres ! 
Her  far-flamed  beacons  and  her  baleful  fires; 
Only  her  noble  actions  never  die. 
These  bide  and  stay  when  names  of  seers  and  kings 
Are  but  the  ashes  of  forgotten  things, 
Hid  'mid  the  moth  and  rust  of  earth's  imaginings.    , 

But  she  will  live  when  we  and  all  our  time 
Are  gathered  to  the  dread  and  blinding  past, 
A  mighty  dream  for  mighty-builded  rhyme. 
The  golden  age  of  Britain's  splendid  prime, 
Eemembered  when  old  glories,  long  that  last, 
Are  blown  as  shriveled  autumn  wreck 

Upon  the  age's  blast. 
Yea,  she  will  live,  and  tales  of  her  pure  life. 
Her  toil  for  others,  her  wise  woman's  love, 
Her  heart  of  sorrow  'mid  the  Jar  and  strife. 
Her  noble  wifehood,  faith  in  heaven  above. 
Her  simple  trust  in  love  from  day  to  day ; 
Yea,  these  will  bide,  while  peoples  pass  away 
With  all  that  puts  its  trust 

In  pomp  of  human  clay. 

Soon,  with  majestic  rite,  and  earth's  wide  sorrow, 
(Great  lady  of  the  pure  and  lofty  crown!) 
Will  Britain,  weeping,  lay  her  sadly  down, 
To  wait  a  brighter  dawn,  a  happier  morrow. 


162  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

In  that  rare  tomb  with  that  rare  soul  to  sleep, 
In  God's  glad  rest  for  all  who  wait  and  weep. 

And  days  will  pass,  and  men  will  come  and  go. 
And  love  and  hate  and  sorrow  dream,  alas ! 
And  all  this  world  and  its  wild  wraith  of  woe 
Unto  the  wrack  of  all  the  ages  pass ; 
And  greatness  be  forgot  and  dreams  decay, 
And  empires  fade,  and  great  souls  pass  away; 
But  she  will  linger  in  her  people's  love. 
As  autumn  lingers  gilding  winter's  snows, 
Or  sunset,  fading  purpled  peaks  above. 
Leaves  golden  trails  of  glory  as  he  goes. 

So  will  she  fade  not,  nor  her  honor  pass. 
But  burgeon  on  and  grow  to  one  white  fame, 
While  lark  in  heaven  lifts  from  England's  grass, 
And  heart  of  England  leaps  to  nobler  flame. 


The  Dead  Poet 

(Lowell) 

Dead  he  lies  at  Elmwood, 
Who  sang  of  human  fortitude; 
Who  voiced  the  higher,  clearer  way 
By  which  all  nobler  spirits  may 
Rise  to  the  rims  of  God's  pure  light 
Over  the  edges  of  earth's  night ; 
Who  sang  of  manhood's  highest  best. 
Like  some  sweet  Arnold  of  the  West, 
With  more  of  kinship  in  his  blood 
With  the  great  struggling  human  brood. 


THE  DEAD  POET  163 

With  more  of  lyric  in  his  note, 
More  of  the  clarion  in  his  throat, 
Tuned  to  the  brawnier  West, 
He  sang  the  songs  our  men  love  best. 

He  woke  new  longings  in  the  heart 
For  that  love-hungered,  better  part; 
He  stripped  religion  of  her  creeds, 
And  showed  beneath  the  withered  reeds 
And  dead  old  grass  husks,  bleached  and  sere, 
The  streams  of  God's  love  running  clear. 
In  humor's  ink  he  dipped  his  pen. 
And  mirth  stirred  in  his  f ellowmen ; 
That  larger,  healthier,  kindlier  mirth. 
That  kindles  in  great  souls  of  earth. 
His  was  the  mind  of  reverence, 
Too  great  to  give  the  soul  oifence. 

This  was  the  poet,  simple,  true. 
Who  all  things  glad  for  brothers  knew; 
With  clear  eyes  knew  the  kings  of  earth 
Beneath  the  husks  of  common  worth; 
Who  never  grew  too  learned  to  know 
The  hope  of  earth  in  heaven's  bow; 
Who  never  grew  too  old  to  feel 
The  sap  of  springtime  upward  steal ; 
Who  never  grew  too  worldly  wise 
To  see  with  purer,  childward  eyes ; 
Too  human  to  be  merely  good, 
This  great  soul  dead  at  Elmwood. 
The  song  of  life  was  on  his  lips, 
True  huKian  to  the  finger  tips. 
With  heart  that  pulsed  and  pulsed  again, 
A  man,  he  loved  his  fellowmen, 

11 


164  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

This  singer  of  all  singers,  who 
To  the  young,  strong  republic  true. 
Voicing  earth's  people  in  the  van, 
Most  manly,  strong,  American! 

Yes,  h&  is  dead,  as  men  know  death. 
Who  count  our  living  by  the  breath 
That  ebbs  or  flows.    Yes,  he  is  dead. 
With  morning's  blush,  or  evening's  red. 
No  more  upon  this  earth  will  walk ; 
No  more  in  human  page,  or  talk. 
Will  he  delight,  or  teach  his  kind. 
Who  love  the  glad  lore  of  the  mind. 
But  till  the  last  despair  is  fled, 
The  last  weird  cell  untenanted. 
The  last  sweet  hope  athwart  the  dark 
Vanishes  in  meteor  spark ; 
While  love  of  earth  and  man  lives  on. 
And  God  and  hope  ahead  are  gone 
To  lead  the  way  to  loftier  truth, 
And  earth  rejuvenates  her  youth; 
Till  earth  her  latest  blossom  gives, 
The  heart  of  Lowell  breathes  and  lives ; 
His  Launfal  learns  the  godlier  way, 
His  dandelion  casts  its  dusty  ray. 
His  "Zekle"  knows  eternal  youth; 
As  long  as  love,  and  hope,  and  truth, 
As  long  as  bloom,  and  pulse  of  blood. 
He  lives  in  earth's  eternal  good 
Who  now  lies  dead  at  Elmwood. 

Ottawa,  August,  1891. 


SUMMER  DEATH  165 

Summer  Death 

(A  Nature  Monody — in  Memory  of  the  Hon.  Arthur  Rupert  Dickey) 

I. 

Splendor  on  splendor  moves  the  summer  world. 

Its  days  of  beauty  and  its  hours  of  thought 

And  lofty  vision.     Over  fields  unfurled 

And  these  hushed  woods  with  sunlit  dreams  inwrought 

Comes  life's  far  promise.    He  alone  is  not. 

No  more  he  comes,  the  grave,  the  wise,  the  kind, 

To  share  as  once  of  yore  love's  treasures  of  the  mind. 

How  fills  the  silence  with  the  year's  great  love. 

This  golden  precinct  of  her  liberties; 

There  is  no  breath  in  earth  or  heaven  above. 

Save  stir  of  winds  or  whispering  lisp  of  trees. 

Or  chirp  of  bird  or  murmurous  drone  of  bees : — 

In  spirit  might  he  stands  alone  with  us. 

To  hark  her  under-song,  so  hushed,  so  tremulous ! 

This  is  the  world  he  loved,  this  home  of  tree 
And  grass  and  flower  and  far  unsounded  sky: 
His  joy  and  quiet  passion  alone  to  be 
Abroad  with  nature  in  her  tranquillity. 
When  she  nor  all  her  train  gave  care  a  sigh : — 
Far,  far  from  life's  loud  thunder  or  its  grief. 
To  stray  in  thought,  alone,  with  flower  and  bud  and 
leaf. 

This  was  his  world,  his  leafy  summer  home. 
The  woods  he  prized  with  quiet  student  eye. 
But  where  is  he  who  gazed  upon  the  dome 


166  POEMS  OF  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Of  unflecked  heaven  and  let  man's  world  go  by ; 
Its  strident  note  tumultuous,  shrill  and  high, 
And  left  the  dreams  of  ermined  Senate  hall, 
To  note  her  sunbeams  dance,  her  silvern  waters  fall  ? 

Where  hath  he  soared,  to  what  far  heights  of  dream  ? 

Grave  Summer  sobs  his  name  among  her  boughs; 

And  grieves  him  far  by  ocean  loud,  or  stream, 

Quiet  of  woodlands;  where  the  shimmering  brows 

Of  aspens  fleck  the  waters  with  their  snows, 

Happy  and  laughing;  or  the  vagrant  wind 

Haunts  the  high  darkling  wood  like  some  unquiet  mind. 

So  grieves  or  laughs  the  Summer;  me  alone, 

Sadness  unending  and  misty  grief  attends. 

By  sunny  field  and  where  his  pine-trees  moan. 

Or  soft  conferring  of  his  woodland  friends:— 

For  me  alone  grey  Sorrow  her  brow  unbends. 

And  shows  her  eyes,  those  orbs  whose  haunted  glooms 

Hold  ever  in  their  depths  the  year's  eternal  dooms. 

II. 

0  day  of  thought !    0  day  of  splendid  dreams ! 

Where  through  these  sunny  glades  the  ghost  winds  walk. 

Making  a  melody  of  the  leafy  gleams: 

And  overhead  the  ravens  call  and  flock 

To  incantations,  where  the  pine-trees  rock ; — 

While  far  above  from  golden  moorings  high, 

The  sun's  white  ancient  barges  drift  down  the  azure  sky. 

But  he  is  gone.     No  more,  no  more,  alas! 

Will  he  revisit  these  familiar  scenes 

By  peaceful  haunts  of  waters  or  of  grass; 


SUMMER  DEATH  167 

No  more  amid  the  summer's  gold  and  greens, 
A  shadow  with  the  silent  shadows  pass, 
Eevolving  inward  thoughts  of  days  to  be. 
As  one  who  reads  life's  book  of  God's  futurity. 

III. 

Wide  walls  of  elm  trees,  etched  against  the  skies ! 

Far  lofty  aisles  of  summer  majesty ! 

Where  cool  at  morn  the  wandering  winds  arise; — 

Lean  low  your  sighings  to  moan  his  death  with  me. 

Whose  life,  high-reaching  like  a  skyward  tree. 

Cut  in  the  forenoon  of  its  splendid  prime, 

Fell  thundering  on  the  slopes  of  shuddering  time; — 

Lean  low  and  teach  me  of  your  summer  peace, 
A  peace  of  heart  that  nature  alone  receives 
From  out  the  treasures  of  her  love's  increase : 
Give  me  your  balm  of  dreams  and  whispering  leaves; 
And  all  that  magic  mighty  summer  weaves 
From  out  her  shimmer  and  shade  and  inward  dreams 
Of  deep  embosomed  woods  and  sunward  glinting 
streams ! 

In  thunders  of  trade  the  loud  world  moves  along. 

By  granite  avenues  of  its  iron  roar : — 

And  men,  unmoved  by  melody  of  song, 

Toil  like  poor  ants  to  pile  the  world's  great  store 

Of  largesse  rich  by  wave  and  sounding  shore; — 

Beauty  and  thought,  unheeded,  'reft,  alone, 

Dream  here  immindful  of  the  world's  far  moan. 

But  he  hath  vanished,  only  yesterday, 

'Mid  rude  alarm  of  earth's  loud  battle-drum, 

^n4  all  the  century's  latest  hours  astray. 


168  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

In  doubt  and  mutterings  of  dread  wars  to  come; 
Now  he,  the  strong,  the  wise,  is  stricken  dumb. 
At  time's  iron  gates,  while  friend  or  foeman  weeps, 
Unmindful  of  our  woe  and  strife  of  life,  he  sleeps. 

<  IV. 

Grey  gates  of  memory  and  the  mournful  mind ! 
Dim  aisles  of  sadness  and  of  pensive  thought! 
Like  touch  of  winter  in  the  summer  wind. 
Your  dream  of  life  with  dreams  of  death  is  fraught ! 
I  feel  your  sadness  though  you  murmur  not, 
Where  flute  your  reveries  in  love's  woodland  tune, 
Down  hollow,  golden  slopes  of  haunted  afternoon. 

Here  in  your  glades  where  sunbeams  interlace. 
My  dreams  are  all  for  him  who  dreameth  not, 
Whose  sleep  is  hidden  in  some  sacred  place. 
Some  solemn,  lonely,  love-devoted  spot. 
Dedicate  to  tears  and  saddened  thought, 
"Where  sleep  the  dead  who  rest  remote  alone. 
Where  Fund/s  thundering  surges  beat  their  mighty 
monotone. 

Here  bide  no  sorrows,  those  grim  shadowed  glooms, 
Those  sleepless  torturers  of  the  human  mind. 
Alien  to  these  luminous  leafy  rooms. 
Whose  only  tenant  is  the  laughing  wind 
Mindless  of  the  days  and  hours  behind. 
Wandering  'mid  boughs  and  blossoms  tremulous. 
Dead  to  all  earth's  ills  and  griefs  that  torture  us. 

V. 

This  cool,  sweet,  summer-breathing  Sabbath  mom. 
The  very  winds  of  heaven  are  filled  with  peace ; 
Such  restf  ulness  upon  their  wings  is  borne 


SUMMER  DEATH  169 

Of  motion  wherein  action  seems  to  cease; — 

And  life  breathes  on  its  slow-drawn  measured  lease; — 

Low  sighing  airs,  cool  skies,  and  lisping  leaves, 

A  summer  lute  whereon  the  stately  season  grieves. 

On  such  a  morn,  enisled  in  summer  dreams. 
All  sadness  sinks  to  peace ;  a  peace  that  holds 
The  spirit  in  a  trance  as  fields  and  streams 
Are  held  within  the  day's  dim  shining  folds ; 
And  as  these  woodlands  in  their  greens  and  golds 
Stand  hushed  in  trance  of  wind  and  leaf  and  bird : 
So  we,  too,  stand  and  hark  for  nature's  larger  word. 

And  it  is  meet  that  here  in  such  an  hour,  ' 

When  all  the  world  is  tuned  to  love's  low  psalm. 
The  heart  should  dream  of  him  whose  spirit's  power. 
Whose  whole  true  strength  was  islanded  in  calm. 
Like  some  reef-island  of  far  summered  palm. 
Hidden  in  peace  from  out  those  ruder  seas 
Where  rage  the  baser  hates  of  life's  mad  destinies. 

So  wrapt  in  strength  he  garnered  from  within. 

So  isolate  in  peace  he  stood  apart, 

A  solitary  headland  in  the  din 

And  maddened  roar  of  all  our  angered  mart. 

Alien  from  the  mob  and  mad  upstart, 

Serene  and  reticent,  from  all  the  world 

Of  party-strife  and  its  loud  passions  hurled: — 

A  hater  of  that  sordid  horde  who  sneak 
And  cringe  and  crawl  to  favor's  lap  unclean ; 
A  silent  patriot  not  afraid  to  speak 
The  saner  word  amid  the  mobs  of  spleen. 
He  stood  alone,  and  chose  that  golden  mean 
Of  wisdom's  place  'twixt  each  extremity 
Of  brutal  bigot  spite  and  blind  antipathy. 


170  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

So  like  this  limpid  morning  grew  his  life, 
So  calm  and  temperate,  kindly,  grave,  contained. 
It  cannot  be  that  all  this  peace  is  rife. 
And  he  alone  in  wintry  silence  chained ; 
Who  ne'er  perforce  a  single  spirit  pained. 
Whose  quaint  grave  wisdom  gladdened  in  his  look, 
Should  now  be  blind  and  dumb  like  wintry,  prisoned 
brook ! 

Peace !  peace !  my  spirit !  let  not  misery  rave. 

That  he  who  left  us  holds  untimely  tryst 

With  shrouded  death  in  June's  untimely  grave; 

Though  Love  her  bright  wings  darkens  into  mist. 

With  hope's  eternal  radiance  death  is  kissed : — 

Peace!  peace!  he  lives  yet  in  our  highest  dreams, 

In  every  leafy,  upward  life,  in  every  bud  that  gleams! 


VI. 

He  sleeps  alone  by  Fundy's  thundering  shore. 
He  sleeps,  though  heedless,  unforgotten  he, 
Who  loved  earth's  mystery  ever  more  and  more, 
And  yearned  to  pierce  her  veiled  infinity ; 
He  sleeps  to-day  unshackled,  franchised,  free, 
To  wander  where  she  wills  him,  she  who  gave 
And  took  to  her  again  by  sedge  and  sounding  wave. 

He  sleeps,  and  dreaming,  chance  in  dreams  he  may; — 

If  nature  builds  anew  or  holds  unchanged 

That  fragile  mystery  clothed  erstwhile  in  clay, 

The  human  mind;  whose  wondrous  vision  ranged 

The  universe  of  life  and  thought  unchanged ; — 

Soar  to  some  mom,  beyond  these  veiled  skies, 

And  dusks  of  our  poor  night,  and  all  its  va^ue  surmise, 


SUMMER  DEATH  171 

I  grieve,  but  not  alone,  the  whole  earth  grieves 
For  him  and  all  hushed  souls  who  fare  alone, 
Eeaped  and  bound  as  autumn-garnered  sheaves. 
Unto  that  harvest  of  the  dim  unknown: — 
I  grieve,  but  not  in  vain,  as  clouds  are  blown. 
By  sun  and  wind  aside  till  heaven  looks  through; — 
So  some  far  shining  hope  illumines  grief's  dim  dew. 

From  here  by  lone  Ottawa's*  dreaming  bank. 

To  where  he  sleeps  by  his  loved  Fundy's  tide. 

Unheeding,  where  the  seabirds,  rank  on  rank. 

Circle  forever  where  the  sea-winds  ride : — 

A  thread  of  memory  doth  forever  bide 

Of  those  who  knew  and  loved  him  in  his  prime. 

Till  memory  fades  and  fails. in  some  dim  after-time; — 

Then  men  may  question,  gazing  on  his  tomb. 

Who  was  this  spirit  of  an  earlier  day? 

And  chance,  still  lingering  in  the  aftergloom. 

This  sombre  verse  revivify  his  clay : 

And  teach  men  of  his  worthiness  to  stay 

In  memory  and  honor  as  of  one 

Who  passed,  untimely,  ere  his  weird  was  spun. 

This  lover  of  earth's  grave  wisdom;  in  the  man 

He  prized  it  dearer  than  in  lore  of  page ; 

And  dwelt  in  spirit  with  that  rarer  clan. 

The  seer,  the  bard,  the  prophet  and  the  sage. 

Who  dream  the  purer  dreams  of  each  new  age. 

And  build  anew  hope's  citadels  of  time. 

In  granite  of  grim  thought,  or  mists  of  airy  rhjnne. 

Still  dreams  Ottawa,*  'twixt  his  country  ways. 
The  roar  of  cities  and  the  haste  of  men ; — 
And  far-off  Fundy  thunders  through  his  haze 

'  Pronounced  Ot-taw-wa — with  accent  on  second  sellable. 


172  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

A  grief  more  sad  than  woe  of  poet's  pen, 

And  wakes  the  sea-wolf  in  his  craggy  den, 

And  lifts  his  mists  and  brims  his  tides  afar, 

To  lave  the  shining  wastes  of  haunted  Tantramar ! 

I  grieve,  but  sorrow  lightens;    Love,  all-wise, 

Hath  ne'er  made  earth  a  charnel-house  for  tears: — 

Even  as  I  dream,  the  morning  drapes  his  skies 

In  glories  far  by  golden  woods  and  meres. 

And  builds  a  wondrous  bastion  round  my  fears; 

While  loosen  the  winds,  their  shining  wings  unfurled, 

And  God's  great  purpose  compasses  the  world. 


Sebastian  Cabot 
I. 

I  DREAM  his  name,  and  there  doth  come  to  me 

A  vision  of  league-long  breakers  landward  hurled ; 

Of  olden  ships  far-beating  out  to  sea; 

Of  splendid  shining  wastes  of  heaving  green 

Far-stretching  round  the  world; 

Of  many  voices  heard  from  many  lands. 

Torrid  and  arctic,  orient  and  the  Line; 

Of  heaving  of  vast  anchors,  vanishing  strands. 

And  over  all  the  wonder  and  thunder  and  wash 

Of  the  loud,  world-conquering  brine. 

Of  sky-rimmed  waste,  or  fog-enshrouded  reef, 

Where  some  mad  siren  ever  sings  the  grief 

Of  all  the  mighty  wrecks  in  that  weird  span 

Since  ocean  and  time  began. 


SEBASTIAN  CABOT  173 

II. 

Venice  and  England  cradled. 

Could  this  seaman  be 

Other  than  ocean's  child. 

With  heart  less  restless  than  that  vast  and  wild 

Great  heart  of  the  thrilling  sea? 

Wakened  to  her  long  thunders. 

Cradled  in  her  soft  voice. 

Could  other  voice  of  all  earth's  voices  sweet 

Make  his  stern  heart  rejoice? 

Yea,  this  was  better  than  all,  greater  than  all 

to  him. 
Truer  than  youth's  mad  whim. 
The  only  love  of  his  youth,  the  only  lore  of  his 

age, 
To  gaze  on  her  vast  tumultuous  scroll, 
To  pore  on  her  wrinkled  page : — 
For  he  was  very  soul  of  her  soul, 
And  she  meet  mother  for  him. 

III. 

Over  the  hazy  distance. 
Beyond  the  sunset's  rim. 
Forever  and  forever 
Those  voices  called  to  him. 
Westward !  westward !  westward  I 
The  sea  sang  in  his  head, 
At  morn  in  the  busy  harbor. 
At  nightfall  on  his  bed — 
Westward!  westward!  westward  I 
Over  the  line  of  breakers, 
Out  of  the  distance  dim. 
Forever  the  foam-white  fingers 
Beckoning,  beckoning  him. 


174  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

IV. 

This  was  no  common  spirit, 
This  sailor  of  old  Bristowe; 
Not  one  of  the  mart-made  helots 
Such  as  the  world  doth  know ; 
But  a  bronzed  and  rugged  veteran. 
Adrift  in  the  vanguard's  flow; 
A  son  of  the  world's  great  highway 
Where  the  mighty  storm-winds  blow. 

V. 

All  honor  to  this  grand  old  Pilot, 

Whose  flag  is  struck,  whose  sails  are  furled. 

Whose  ship  is  beached,  whose  voyage  ended; 

Who  sleeps  somewhere  in  sod  unknown, 

Without  a  slab,  without  a  stone. 

In  that  great  Island,  sea-impearled. 

Yea,  reverence  with  honor  blended. 

For  this  old  seaman  of  the  past, 

Who  braved  the  leagues  of  ocean  hurled. 

Who  out  of  danger  knowledge  rended. 

And  built  the  bastions,  sure  and  fast. 

Of  that  great  bridgeway  grand  and  vast 

Of  golden  commerce  round  the  world. 

All  honor !  yea,  a  day  shall  come. 

If  glory  lives  in  human  rhyme. 

When  our  poor  faltering  lips  are  dumb ; 

A  greater  and  more  splendid  time. 

When  larger  men  of  mightier  aim 

Shall  do  meet  honor  to  his  name. 

Yea,  honor !  only  greatness  keeps 

Its  sanctuary  where  this  seaman  sleeps; 

This  old  Venetian,  Briton-bom, 

Who  held  of  fear  a  hero's  scorn. 


SEBASTIAN  CABOT  176 

Who  nailed  his  colors  to  the  mast, 
Who  sought  in  reverence  for  the  true. 
And  found  it  in  the  rifting  blue 
Of  those  broad  furrows  of  the  vast. 
Who  knew  no  honors,  held  no  state. 
But  in  his  ruggedness  was  great. 
Who,  like  some  sea-shell,  in  him  felt 
The  universe  of  ocean  dwelt. 
Whose  whole  true  being  nature  cast 
Like  his  own  ocean-spaces,  vast ! 

VI. 

Yea,  he  is  dead,  this  mighty  seaman  I 
Four  long  centuries  ago. 
Beating  westward,  ever  westward. 
Beating  out  from  old  Bristowe, 
Saw  he  far  in  visions  lifted, 
Down  the  golden  sunset's  glow. 
Through  the  bars  of  twilight  rifted. 
All  the  glories  that  we  know. 
Beating  westward,  ever  westward. 
Over  heaving  leagues  of  brine. 
Buffeted  by  arctic  scurries. 
Languid  trade- winds  from  the  Line; 
With  a  courage  heaven-gifted. 
And  a  fortitude  divine. 
Yea,  he  is  dead ;  but  who  shall  say 
That  all  the  splendid  deeds  he  wrought. 
That  all  the  lofty  truths  he  taught 
(If  truth  be  knowledge  nobly  sought), 
Are  dead  and  vanished  quite  away. 
Nay,  nay,  he  lives ;  and  such  as  he. 
In  every  lofty  human  dream. 
In  every  true  sublimity 


176  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

That  splendors  earth  and  makes  it  teem 
With  inward  might  and  majesty; 
This  grand  old  Pilot  of  Bristowe, 
Incarnate,  comes  to  earth  again, 
As  when,  four  hundred  years  ago. 
He  swept  in  storm  and  shine  and  snow, 
Athwart  the  thunders  of  the  main. 

VII. 

Greater  far  than  shaft  or  storied  fane, 

Than  bronze  and  marble  blent, 

Greater  than  all  the  honors  he  could  gain 

From  a  nation's  high  intent, 

He  sleeps  alone,  in  his  great  isle,  unknown, 

With  the  chalk-cliffs  all  around  him  for  his 

mighty  graveyard  stone. 
And  the  league-long,  sounding  roar 
Of  old  ocean,  for  evermore 
Beating,  beating,  about  his  rest. 
For  fane  and  monument. 


Bereavement  of  the  Fields 

(In  Memory  of  Archibald  Lampman,  who  died  February  10th,  1899) 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  soft 

Falls  on  my  heart  the  snow  of  wintry  pain ; 

For  never  more,  by  wood  or  field  or  croft. 

Will  he  we  knew  walk  with  his  loved  again; 

No  more,  with  eyes  adream  and  soul  aloft, 

In  those  high  moods  where  love  and  beauty  reign, 

Greet  his  familiar  fields,  his  skies  without  a  stain. 


BEREAVEMENT  OF  THE  FIELDS  177 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  deep, 

Like  downy  pinions  from  the  moulting  breast 

Of  all  tiie  mothering  sky,  round  his  hushed  sleep, 

Flutter  a  million  loves  upon  his  rest, 

Where  once  his  well-loved  flowers  were  fain  to  peep, 

With  adder-tongue  and  waxen  petals  prest, 

In  young  spring  evenings  reddening  down  the  west. 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  hushed 

Seems  life's  loud  action,  all  its  strife  removed, 

Afar,  remote,  where  grief  itself  seems  crushed. 

And  even  hope  and  sorrow  are  reproved; 

For  he  whose  cheek  erstwhile  with  hope  was  flushed. 

And  by  the  gentle  haunts  of  being  moved. 

Hath  gone  the  way  of  all  he  dreamed  and  loved. 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  lost. 
This  tender  spirit  gone  with  scarce  a  tear. 
Ere,  loosened  from  the  dungeons  of  the  frost. 
Wakens  with  yearnings  new  the  enfranchised  year. 
Late  winter-wizened,  gloomed,  and  tempest-tost; 
And  Hesper's  gentle,  delicate  veils  appear, 
WTien  dream  anew  the  days  of  hope  and  fear. 

And  Mother  Nature,  she  whose  heart  is  fain. 
Yea,  she  who  grieves  not,  neither  faints  nor  fails, 
Building  the  seasons,  she  will  bring  again 
March  with  rudening  madness  of  wild  gales, 
April  and  her  wraiths  of  tender  rain, 
And  all  he  loved, — ^this  soul  whom  memory  veils. 
Beyond  the  burden  of  our  strife  and  pain. 

Not  his  to  wake  the  strident  note  of  song, 
Xor  pierce  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart. 
Those  tragic  wells,  remote,  of  might  and  wrong; 


178  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  rather,  with  those  gentler  souls  apart, 
He  dreamed  like  his  own  summer  days  along. 
Filled  with  the  beauty  born  of  his  own  heart, 
SuflBcient  in  the  sweetness  of  his  song. 

Outside  this  prison-house  of  all  our  tears. 

Enfranchised  from  our  sorrow  and  our  wrong. 

Beyond  the  failure  of  our  days  and  years. 

Beyond  the  burden  of  our  saddest  song, 

He  moves  with  those  whose  music  filled  his  ears. 

And  claimed  his  gentle  spirit  from  the  throng, — 

Wordsworth,  Arnold,  Keats,  high  masters  of  his  song. 

Like  some  rare  Pan  of  those  old  Grecian  days. 
Here  in  our  hours  of  deeper  stress  reborn. 
Unfortunate  thrown  upon  life's  evil  ways. 
His  inward  ear  heard  ever  that  satyr  horn 
From  Nature's  lips  reverberate  night  and  mom. 
And  fled  from  men  and  all  their  troubled  maze. 
Standing  apart,  with  sad,  incurious  gaze. 

And  now,  untimely  cut,  like  some  sweet  flower 
Plucked  in  the  early  summer  of  its  prime, 
Before  it  reached  the  fullness  of  its  dower. 
He  withers  in  the  morning  of  our  time ; 
Leaving  behind  him,  like  a  summer  shower, 
A  fragrance  of  earth's  beauty,  and  the  chime 
Of  gentle  and  imperishable  rhyme. 

Songs  in  our  ears  of  winds  and  flowers  and  buds 
And  gentle  loves  and  tender  memories 
Of  Nature's  sweetest  aspects,  her  pure  moods. 
Wrought  from  the  inward  truth  of  intimate  eyes 
And  delicate  ears  of  him  who  harks  and  broods. 
And,  nightly  pondering,  daily  grows  more  wise. 
And  dreams  and  sees  in  mighty  solitudes. 


NICHOLAS  FLOOD  DAVIN  179 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  soft 
He  sleeps  in  peace  upon  the  breast  of  her 
He  loved  the  truest;  where,  by  wood  and  croft, 
The  wintry  silence  folds  in  fleecy  blur 
About  his  silence,  while  in  glooms  aloft 
The  mighty  forest  fathers,  without  stir. 
Guard  well  the  rest  of  him,  their  rare  sweet 
worshipper. 


Nicholas  Flood  Davin 

ITature  the  mother  hath  her  seas, 
Her  lakes,  her  vales,  her  mountain 
rifts. 

And  to  her  various  sons  she  gives 
Her  various  gifts. 

To  one  the  power  of  mighty  mind, 
To  sway,  to  forge  a  people's  chain. 

And  to  another  but  to  bear 
A  life-long  pain. 

To  one  rare  soul  her  magic  lore 
Of  will,  keen  insight,  prophecy; 

To  do,  to  dare,  and  change  all  things 
Beneath  the  sky. 

Unto  another  to  console. 

To  raise  and  succor,  aid  and  heal 
Those  wounded  ones  who  blindly  drive 

Fate's  grinding  wheel. 
12 


fc 


180  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Not  singly  gifted  was  this  man, 
No  simple  furrow  his  to  plow ; 

But  with  a  burden  of  gifts  the  Mother 
kind 
Did  him  endow. 

The  piercing  wit,  the  splendid  form. 
The  poet  lip,  the  flashing  eye. 

And  all  that  magic  power  of  soul 
That  will  not  die. 

Not  his  to  rule  with  subtle  skill, 
To  plot,  to  plan  with  fertile  brain ; 

But  with  rare  charm  of  mind  and  voice 
To  hold  and  chain. 

Here  where  he  sleeps  we  rear  this  stone. 
Memorial  of  his  spirit^s  force; 

This  valiant  knight  whom  death  alone 
Could  dare  unhorse. 

Alone  he  moved  amid  our  clan, 
A  genial  alien  in  our  waste. 

The  courtly  relic  of  an  age 
Of  finer  taste; 

When  kindly  satire  forged  her  darts. 
And  wit  and  learning  leaned  to  rhyme ; 

And  polished  sentences  were  more  in 
vogue, 
And  less  a  crime. 

Courteous  and  manly,  child  of  that 
Eare  charm  old  Erin  grants  her  sons; 

With  all  that  humorous  touch  with 
which  she  dowers 
Her  rarer  ones. 


HENRY  A.  HARPER  181 

Not  his  to  raise  prophetic  voice. 

To  sear  the  soul  with  flaming  brand : 

He  stood  for  culture,  genial,  kind. 
In  our  new  land : 

Where  Force,  oft  naked,  often  clothed 

In  ruder  garments  than  is  meet. 
Doth  in  grave  senate  halls  parade, 

As  in  the  street. 

Yea,  he  is  gone,  departed  hence, 
When  shall  our  halls  another  find : 

His  kindly  satire,  scintillating  wit. 
His  classic  mind. 

And  o'er  his  grave  Canadian  love 
Canadian  grief  a  garland  throws: 

And  our  young  muse  a  chaplet  binds 
About  his  brows. 

Leaving  his  f aidts,  his  virtues  rare. 
His  failure,  hopes,  to  gentle  heaven; 

Forgiving  his  weakness,  as  we  do  also 
pray 
To  be  forgiven. 


Henry  A.  Harper 

(Drowned  in  the  Ottawa  River  while  trying  to  save  Miss  Blair) 

We  crown  the  splendors  of  immortal  peace. 
And  laud  the  heroes  of  ensanguined  war, 
Eearing  in  granite  memory  of  men 
Who  build  the  future,  recreate  the  past, 
Or  animate  the  present  dull  world's  pulse 
With  loftier  riches  of  the  human  mind. 


182  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

But  his  was  greatness  not  of  common  mould. 
And  yet  so  human  in  its  simple  worth, 
That  any  spirit  plodding  its  slow  round 
Of  social  commonplace  and  daily  moil, 
IVright  blunder  on  such  greatness,  did  he  hold 
In  him  the  kernel  sap  from  which  it  sprung. 

Men  in  rare  hours  great  actions  may  perform, 

Heroic,  lofty,  whereof  earth  will  ring, 

A  world  onlooking,  and  the  spirit  strung 

To  high  achievement,  at  the  cannon's  mouth. 

Or  where  fierce  ranks  of  maddened  men  go  down. 

But  this  was  godlier.    In  the  common  round 

Of  life's  slow  action,  stumbling  on  the  brink 

Of  sudden  opportunity,  he  chose 

The  only  noble,  godlike,  splendid  way, 

And  made  his  exit,  as  earth's  great  have  gone, 

By  that  vast  doorway  looking  out  on  death. 

No  poet  this  of  winged,  immortal  pen ; 

No  hero  of  an  hundred  victories; 

Nor  iron  moulder  of  unwieldy  states, 

Grave  counsellor  of  parliaments,  gold-tongued. 

Standing  in  shadow  of  a  centuried  fame, 

Drinking  the  splendid  plaudits  of  a  world. 

But  simple,  unrecorded  in  his  days. 

Unostentatious,  like  the  average  man 

Of  average  duty,  walked  the  common  earth, 

And  when  fate  flung  her  challenge  in  his  face. 

Took  all  his  spirit  in  his  blinded  eyes. 

And  showed  in  action  why  God  made  the  world. 

He  passes  as  all  pass,  both  small  and  great. 
Oblivion-clouded,  to  the  common  goal; — 
And  all  unmindful  moves  the  dull  world  round. 


THE  DEAD  LEADER  183 

"With  baser  dreams  of  this  material  day. 
And  all  that  makes  man  petty,  the  slow  pace 
Of  small  accomplishment  that  mocks  the  soul. 

But  he  hath  taught  us  by  this  splendid  deed. 
That  under  all  the  brutish  mask  of  life 
And  dulled  intention  of  ignoble  ends, 
Man's  soul  is  not  all  sordid ;  that  behind 
This  tragedy  of  ills  and  hates  that  seem, 
There  lurks  a  godlike  impulse  in  the  world. 
And  men  are  greater  than  they  idly  dream. 


The  Dead  Leader 

(Written  on  the  day  of  Sir  John  A.  Macdonald's  Funeral, 
June  10th,  1891) 

Let  the  sad  drums  mutter  low. 

And  the  serried  ranks  move  slow. 
And  the  thousand  hearts  beat  hushed  along  the  street ; 

For  a  mighty  heart  is  still, 

And  a  great,  unconquered  will 
Hath  passed  to  meet  the  conqueror  all  must  meet. 

Outworn  without  assoil 

From  a  great  life's  lengthened  toil. 
Laurelled  with  a  half  a  century's  fame ; 

From  the  care  and  adulation 

To  the  heart-throb  of  the  nation 
He  hath  passed  to  be  a  memory  and  a  name. 

With  banners  draped  and  furled, 

'Mid  the  sorrow  of  a  world, 
"We  lay  him  down  with  fitting  pomp  and  state; 

With  slumber  in  his  breast. 

To  his  long,  eternal  rest 
We  lay  him  down,  this  man  who  made  us  great. 


184  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Him  of  the  wider  vision, 

"V\Tio  had  one  hope,  elysian, 
To  mould  a  mighty  empire  toward  the  west: 

Who  through  the  hostile  years, 

'Mid  the  wrangling  words,  like  spears. 
Still  bore  this  titan  vision  in  his  breast. 

God  gave  this  highest  honor 

To  the  nation,  that  upon  her 
He  was  spared  to  lay  the  magic  of  his  hand; 

Then  to  live  to  see  the  greatness 

Of  his  noble  work's  completeness, 
Then  to  pass  to  rest  beloved  by  his  land. 

"We  stand  at  death's  dim  gates 

Where  his  mighty  soul  awaits 
Somewhere  the  long,  long  silence  of  the  years. 

And  the  marble  of  his  lips 

Doth  all  our  woe  eclipse. 
Death's  awful  peace  rolls  back  upon  our  tears. 

Greater  than  all  sorrow 

That  our  hearts  can  borrow. 
Loftier  than  our  fleeting,  human  praise ; 

He  hath  calmness,  great  and  grim. 

That  death  hath  granted  him. 
The  wisest  and  the  mightiest  of  our  days. 

Let  the  sad  drums  mutter  low. 

And  the  serried  ranks  move  slow. 
And  the  thousand  hearts  beat  hushed  along  the  street ; 

For  a  mighty  heart  is  still. 

And  a  great,  unconquered  will 
Hath  passed  to  meet  the  conqueror  all  must  meet. 


ALEXANDER  LUMSDEN  185 

Alexander  Lumsden 

A  Scottish-Canadian 

Beside  the  Eideau,  'neath  its  elms. 
Still  stands  the  home  he  loved  so  well ; 

But  silence  eternal  overwhelms 
The  kindly  master  'neath  its  spell. 

Beneath  its  roof  tree  hushed  he  lies 
In  death's  cold  truce  of  mortal  pain. 

While  outside  imder  August  skies 
His  loved  flowers  glisten  in  the  rain, 

Unconscious  in  their  lack  of  grief 
Of  those  who  come  or  those  who  go. 

Innocent  in  their  beauty  brief. 

Of  human  heart-break,  human  woe. 

A  man  he  was  of  simple  moods, 

Of  strong  keen  action,  kindly  thought, 

A  friend  of  life's  beatitudes, 

Beneath  the  rough  mail  grimly  wrought. 

Time's  busy  battlers  of  the  street. 
In  strife  for  earth's  material  things. 

Know  not  the  souls  they  daily  meet. 

Disguised  in  trade's  grim  armored  rings. 

'Tis  not  the  outward  presence,  bland, 
Whose  honied  accents  plaudits  win, 

The  favored  idol  of  a  land. 
That  holds  the  noblest  heart  within. 


186  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

'Twas  not  the  high  or  lowly  birth. 
The  worldly  culture,  made  this  man,- 

But  somewhat  in  him,  more  than  earth. 
That  blessed  him  ere  his  life  began. 

Some  kind,  intuitive  knowledge  sent. 
Some  wisdom  of  the  heart  and  brain ; 

Some  essence  in  his  nature  blent. 

As  throughout  heaven  dissolves  the  rain ; 

That  'mid  the  grime  of  worldly  strife. 
Of  toil's  rude  struggle,  hard  and  grim. 

Still  near  to  nature  all  his  life 

There  walked  the  unsullied  heart  of  him. 

A  spirit  joying  in  tender  moods 
Of  bud  and  blossom,  sun  and  rain ; 

Who  read  the  wisdom  of  wide  woods, 
A  poet  with  all  the  poefs  pain. 

The  bough  into  the  blast  is  bent. 
The  shaft  from  out  the  bow  is  sped ; 

The  fire  that  flamed  the  wick  is  spent, 
The  wind  that  whirled  the  dust  is  dead. 

Fair  Stanley  Avenue,  once  so  full 
Of  life's  achievement,  power  and  will ! 

iN'ow  only  silence  beautiful ! 

The  very  vagrant  hours  are  still. 

New  Edinburgh,  August  6,  1904. 


poems  of  tbe  affections 


BEYOND  THE  HILLS  OF  DREAM  189 


Beyond  the  Hills  of  Dream 

Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream, 
Beyond  the  walls  of  care  and  fate. 

Where  the  loves  and  memories  teem ; 
We  come  to  a  world  of  fancy  free. 

Where  hearts  forget  to  weep; — 
Over  the  mountains  of  dream,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  sleep. 

Over  the  hills  of  care,  my  Love, 

Over  the  mountains  of  dread. 
We  come  to  a  valley,  glad  and  vast, 

Where  we  meet  the  long-lost  dead: 
And  there  the  gods  in  splendor  dwell. 

In  a  land  where  all  is  fair. 
Over  the  mountains  of  dread,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  care. 

Over  the  mountains  of  dream,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  sleep ; — 
Could  we  but  come  to  that  heart's  desire. 

Where  the  harvests  of  fancy  reap, 
Then  we  would  know  the  old  joys  and  hopes. 

The  longings  of  youth's  bright  gleam. 
Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream. 

Yea,  there  the  sweet  old  years  have  rest. 

And  there  my  heart  would  be. 
Amid  the  glad  ones  loved  of  yore, 

At  the  sign  of  the  Fancy  Free; 


190  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  there  the  old  lips  would  repeat 

Earth's  memories  o'er  and  o'er, 
Over  the  mountains  of  might-have-been. 

Over  the  hills  of  yore. 

Unto  that  valley  of  dreams,  my  Love, 

If  we  could  only  go, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  heart's  despair. 

The  hills  of  winter  and  snow, 
Then  we  would  come  to  those  happy  isles. 

Those  shores  of  blossom  and  wing, 
Over  the  mountains  of  waiting,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  spring. 

And  there  where  the  woods  are  scarlet  and  gold. 

And  the  apples  are  red  on  the  tree. 
The  heart  of  autumn  is  never  old 

In  that  country  where  we  would  be. 
And  how  would  we  come  to  that  land,  my  Love  ? 

Follow  the  midnight  stars, 
That  swim  and  gleam  in  a  milk-white  stream, 

Over  the  night's  white  bars. 

Or  follow  the  trail  of  the  sunset  red 

That  beacons  the  dying  deeps 
Of  day's  wild  borders  down  the  edge 

Of  silence,  where  evening  sleeps; 
Or  take  the  road  that  the  morning  wakes. 

When  he  whitens  his  first  rosebeam. 
Over  the  mountains  of  glory,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream. 

Sometime,  sometime,  we  will  go,  my  Love, 

When  winter  loosens  to  spring. 
And  all  the  spirits  of  Joy  are  ajog. 

After  the  wild-bird's  wing, — 


BEYOND   THE  HILLS  OF  DREAM  191 

When  winter  and  sorrow  have  opened  their  doors 

To  set  love's  prisoners  free, 
Over  the  mountains  of  woe,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dree. 

And  when  we  reach  there  we  will  know 

The  faces  we  knew  of  yore. 
The  lips  that  kissed,  the  hands  that  clasped. 

When  memory  loosens  her  store; 
And  we  will  drink  to  the  long  dead  years, 

In  that  inn  of  the  golden  gleam, 
Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream. 

And  all  the  joys  we  missed,  my  Love, 

And  all  the  hopes  we  knew. 
The  dreams  of  life  we  dreamed  in  vain, 

When  youth's  red  blossoms  blew ; 
And  all  the  hearts  that  throbbed  for  us. 

In  the  past  so  sunny  and  fair. 
We  will  meet  and  greet  in  that  golden  land. 

Over  the  hills  of  care. 

Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream. 
Beyond  the  walls  of  care  and  fate, 

Where  the  loves  and  memories  teem. 
We  come  to  a  land  of  fancy  free. 

Where  hearts  forget  to  weep. 
Over  the  mountains  of  dream,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  sleep. 


192  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Love 

Love  came  at  dawn  when  all  the  world  was  fair, 
"When  crimson  glories,  bloom,  and  song  were  rife; 

Love  came  at  dawn  when  hope's  wings  fanned  the  air, 
And  murmured,  "  I  am  life/' 

Love  came  at  even  when  the  day  was  done. 

When    heart    and    brain    were    tired,    and    slumber 
pressed ; 

Love  came  at  eve,  shut  out  the  sinking  sun. 
And  whispered,  "  I  am  rest." 


Afterglow 

After  the  clangor  of  battle 

There  comes  a  moment  of  rest. 

And  the  simple  hopes  and  the  simple  joys 

And  the  simple  thoughts  are  best. 

After  the  victor's  paean, 

After  the  thunder  of  gun. 

There  comes  a  lull  that  must  come  to  all 

Before  the  set  of  the  sun. 

Then  what  is  the  happiest  memory? 
Is  it  the  foe's  defeat? 
Is  it  the  splendid  praise  of  a  world 
That  thunders  by  at  your  feet  ? 


OUT  OF  POMPEII  193 

Nay,  nay,  to  the  life-worn  spirit 
The  happiest  thoughts  are  those 
That  carry  us  back  to  the  simple  joys 
And  the  sweetness  of  life's  repose. 

A  simple  love  and  a  simple  trust 
And  a  simple  duty  done. 
Are  truer  torches  to  light  to  death 
Than  a  whole  world's  victories  won. 


Out  of  Pompeii 

She  lay,  face  downward,  on  her  bended  arm. 

In  this  her  new,  sweet  dream  of  human  bliss. 
Her  heart  within  her  fearful,  fluttering,  warm, 

Her  lips  yet  pained  with  love's  first  timorous  kiss. 
She  did  not  note  the  darkening  afternoon, 

She  did  not  mark  the  lowering  of  the  sky 
O'er  that  great  city.    Earth  had  given  its  boon 

Unto  her  lips,  love  touched  her  and  passed  by. 

In  one  dread  moment  all  the  sky  grew  dark. 

The  hideous  rain,  the  panic,  the  red  rout. 
Where  love  lost  love,  and  all  the  world  might  mark 

The  city  overwhelmed,  blotted  out 
Without  one  cry,  so  quick  oblivion  came, 

And  life  passed  to  the  black  where  all  forget; 
But  she — ^we  know  not  of  her  house  or  name — 

In  love's  sweet  musings  doth  lie  dreaming  yet. 

The  dread  hell  passed,  the  ruined  world  grew  still. 
And  the  great  city  passed  to  nothingness : 

The  ages  went  and  mankind  worked  its  will. 

Then  men  stood  still  amid  the  centuries'  press. 


194  POEMS  OP-   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  in  the  ash-hid  ruins  opened  bare. 
As  she  lay  down  in  her  shamed  loveliness, 

Sculptured  and  frozen,  late  they  found  her  there, 
Image  of  love  'mid  all  that  hideousness. 

Her  head,  face  doVnward,  on  her  bended  arm. 

Her  single  robe  that  showed  her  shapely  form. 
Her  wondrous  fate  love  keeps  divinely  warm 

Over  the  centuries,  past  the  slaying  storm ; 
The  heart  can  read  in  writings  time  hath  left, 

That  linger  still  through  death's  oblivion ; 
And  in  this  waste  of  life  and  light  bereft. 

She  brings  again  a  beauty  that  had  gone. 

And  if  there  be  a  day  when  all  shall  wake. 

As  dreams  the  hoping,  doubting  human  heart. 
The  dim  forgetfulness  of  death  will  break 

For  her  as  one  who  sleeps  with  lips  apart; 
And  did  God  call  her  suddenly,  I  know 

She'd  wake  as  morning  wakened  by  the  thrush, 
Feel  that  red  kiss  across  the  centuries  glow. 

And  make  all  heaven  rosier  by  her  blush. 


Harvest  Slumber  Song 

Sleep^  little  baby,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 
Eed  is  the  moon  in  the  night's  still,  deep, 
White  are  the  stars  with  their  silver  wings 
Polded  in  dreamings  of  beautiful  things. 
And  over  their  cradle  the  night  wind  sings. 
Sleep,  little  baby,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Soft  in  the  lap  of  the  mother  night 

The  wee  baby  stars,  all  glowing  and  bright. 


THE  MOTHER  195 

Flutter  their  silver  wings  and  crow- 
To  the  watchful  winds  that  kiss  as  they  blow 
Round  the  air-cradle  that  swings  so  low 
Down  in  the  lap  of  the  mother  night. 

Sleep,  little  baby,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 

Eed  is  the  moon  in  the  night's  still  deep, 

And  the  wee  baby  stars  are  all  folded  and  kissed 

In  a  luminous  cradle  of  silver  mist; 

And  if  ever  they  waken  the  winds  cry.  Whist, 

Sleep,  little  baby,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 


The  Mother 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  following  passage  in  Tyler's 
Aninjism :  "  The  pathetic  German  superstition  that  the  dead  mother's 
coming  back  in  the  night  to  suckle  the  baby  she  has  left  on  earth 
may  be  known  by  the  noUow  pressed  down  in  the  bed  where  she 
lay." 


It  was  April,  blossoming  spring, 

They  buried  me,  when  the  birds  did  sing; 

Earth,  in  clammy  wedging  earth. 

They  banked  my  bed  with  a  black,  damp  girth. 

Under  the  damp  and  under  the  mould, 

I  kenned  my  breasts  were  clammy  and  cold. 

Out  from  the  red  beams,  slanting  and  bright, 
I  kenned  my  cheeks  were  sunken  and  white. 

I  was  a  dream,  and  the  world  was  a  dream. 
And  yet  I  kenned  all  things  that  seem. 
13 


196  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

I  was  a  dream,  and  the  world  was  a  dream, 
But  you  cannot  bury  a  red  sunbeam. 

For  though  in  the  under-grave's  doom-night 
I  lay  all  silent  and  stark  and  white, 

Yet  over  my  head  I  seemed  to  know 

The  murmurous  moods  of  wind  and  snow, 

The  snows  that  wasted,  the  winds  that  blew. 
The  rays  that  slanted,  the  clouds  that  drew 

The  water-ghosts  up  from  lakes  below, 

And  the  little  flower-souls  in  earth  that  grow. 

Under  earth,  in  the  grave's  stark  night, 
I  felt  the  stars  and  the  moon's  pale  light. 

I  felt  the  winds  of  ocean  and  land 

That  whispered  the  blossoms  soft  and  bland. 

Though  they  had  buried  me  dark  and  low. 
My  soul  with  the  season's  seemed  to  grow. 

II. 

From  throes  of  pain  they  buried  me  low. 
For  death  had  finished  a  mother's  woe. 

But  under  the  sod,  in  the  grave's  dread  doom, 
I  dreamed  of  my  baby  in  glimmer  and  gloom. 

I  dreamed  of  my  babe,  and  I  kenned  that  his  rest 
Was  broken  in  wailings  on  my  dead  breast. 

I  dreamed  that  a  rose-leaf  hand  did  cling: 
Oh,  you  cannot  bury  a  mother  in  spring! 


THE  MOTHER  197 

"VSIieii  the  winds  are  soft  and  the  blossoms  are  red 
She  could  not  sleep  in  her  cold  earth-bed. 

I  dreamed  of  my  babe  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
And  then  I  rose  in  my  graveclothes  white. 

I  rose  like  a  flower  from  my  damp  earth-bed 
To  the  world  of  sorrowing  overhead. 

Men  would  have  called  me  a  thing  of  harm. 
But  dreams  of  my  babe  made  me  rosy  and  warm. 

I  felt  my  breasts  swell  under  my  shroud; 
No  star  shone  white,  no  winds  were  loud; 

But  I  stole  me  past  the  graveyard  wall. 
For  the  voice  of  my  baby  seemed  to  call ; 

And  I  kenned  me  a  voice,  though  my  lips  were 

dumb: 
Hush,  baby,  hush !  for  mother  is  come. 

I  passed  the  streets  to  my  husband's  home; 
The  chamber  stairs  in  a  dream  I  clomb; 

I  heard  the  sound  of  each  sleeper's  breath, 
Light  waves  that  break  on  the  shores  of  death. 

I  listened  a  space  at  my  chamber  door. 
Then  stole  like  a  moon-ray  over  its  floor. 

My  babe  was  asleep  on  a  stranger  arm, 
"  0  baby,  my  baby,  the  grave  is  so  warm, 

"  Though  dark  and  so  deep,  for  mother  is  there ! 
0  come  with  me  from  the  pain  and  care ! 


198  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

"  0  come  with  me  from  the  anguish  of  earth, 
Where  the  bed  is  banked  with  a  blossoming  girth, 

"  Where  the  pillow  is  soft  and  the  rest  is  long. 
And  mother  will  croon  you  a  slumber-song — 

"  A  slumber-song  that  will  charm  your  eyes 
To  a  sleep  that  never  in  earth-song  lies  1 

"  The  loves  of  earth  your  being  can  spare, 
But  never  the  grave,  for  mother  is  there." 

I  nestled  him  soft  to  my  throbbing  breast. 
And  stole  me  back  to  my  long,  long  rest. 

And  here  I  lie  with  him  under  the  stars. 
Dead  to  earth,  its  peace  and  its  wars; 

Dead  to  its  hates,  its  hopes,  and  its  harms, 
So  long  as  he  cradles  up  soft  in  my  arms. 

And  heaven  may  open  its  shimmering  doors. 
And  saints  make  music  on  pearly  floors. 

And  hell  may  yawn  to  its  infinite  sea. 
But  they  never  can  take  my  baby  from  me. 

For  so  much  a  part  of  my  soul  he  hath  grown 
That  God  doth  know  of  it  high  on  His  throne. 

And  here  I  lie  with  him  under  the  flowers 
That  sun-winds  rock  through  the  billowy  hours. 

With  the  night-airs  that  steal  from  the  murmur- 
ing sea. 
Bringing  sweet  peace  to  my  baby  and  me. 


ON  A   SUAmER  SHORE  199 

On  a  Summer  Shore 

Long  years  have  gone,  and  yet  it  seems 

But  scarce  an  hour  ago, 
I  lay  upon  a  moss-grown  rock, 

And  watched  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  waters,  where  cool  shades  above 

Glassed  in  cool  depths  below. 

You  stood  beside  me  sweet  and  fair, 

A  basket  on  your  arm, 
Eed-heaped  with  luscious  fruit  we'd  picked 

Down  at  the  old  shore-farm; 
You  stood  and  in  the  shore-wood  made 

A  picture  glad  and  warm. 

Like  heaving  pearl  the  blue  bay  rocked 

Against  its  limestone  wall. 
Far  off  in  reeling  dreams  of  blue 

The  heavens  seemed  to  fall 
About  the  world,  and  there  you  stood, 

Unconscious,  queen  of  all. 

From  far-off  fields  the  low  of  kine. 

Soft  bird-rotes,  airy  streams, 
That  stole  in  here,  far,  broken  notes 

Of  all  the  day's  hushed  dreams; 
And  you,  one  slender  shaft  of  light. 

In  all  the  world's  wide  gleams. 

"We  spoke  no  love,  for  I  was  shy, 

And  you  were  shyer  then; 
Mine  was  a  boy's  faint  heart,  and  yours 

Still  outside  of  love's  ken; 
But  such  sweet  moments  are  full  rarp 

Jn  barren  jjrears  of  rnen, 


200  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  often  when  the  heart  is  worn 
And  life  grows  sorrow-wise, 

I  dream  again  a  blue,  north  bay, 
A  gleam  of  summer  skies; 

And  by  my  side  a  young  girl  stands 
With  heaven  in  her  eyes. 

You  are  a  dream,  a  face,  a  wraith. 
You  drift  across  my  pain, 

I  lock  you  in  my  sacred  past 
Where  all  love's  ghosts  remain; 

But  life  hath  nought  for  me  so  sweet 
As  you  can  bring  again. 


Belated 

The  year  drifts  sadly  back  this  way. 
With  autumn's  grief  and  pain; 

But  with  the  red  leaf  and  the  gold 
She  ne'er  will  come  again. 

This  world  hath  its  weird  beauteousness. 

That  youth  in  music  stirs ; 
But  time  will  ne'er  bring  back  to  earth 

The  beauty  that  was  hers. 

You  could  not  call  a  red  leaf  God's 

If  she  were  not  God's  too; 
A  light  fell  on  such  eyes  and  lips 

Man  never  more  will  woo. 

When  her  smile  went  the  day's  went  too. 
Night,  when  she  closed  her  eyes. 


BE  LA  TED  201 

Lost  half  its  glory.    When  she  woke 
Earth  changed  to  paradise. 

She  looked  so  peaceful  in  her  sleep 

When  they  laid  her  to  her  rest, 
I  could  not  help  but  think  upon 

An  infant  at  the  breast. 

She  looked  so  like  to  one  who'd  wake 

This  side  the  break  of  dawn, 
I  grudged  the  very  earth  they  heaped 

Her  snow-like  breast  upon. 

I  hear  her  low  voice  calling  soft, 

Her  footstep  at  the  doors ; 
I  wake  up  in  the  dead  of  night. 

And  walk  the  wintry  floors. 

I  see  her  croon  her  babe  to  sleep. 

Athwart  the  moonlight  now, 
Her  wealth  of  golden  hair  that  feU 

Across  her  gentle  brow. 

I  often  walk  at  death  of  day. 

Amid  the  sunset  firs, 
And  dream  the  world  will  no  more  know 

The  beauty  that  was  hers. 

I  wonder  in  some  far-off  state. 

If  love  can  conquer  death, 
Will  I  know  her  and  she  know  me. 

As  when  she  drew  life's  breath? 

And  will  she  stand  at  some  flame-gate. 
And  wait  and  watch  for  me. 


202  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  fall  upon  my  breast  and  weep 
With  joy  my  face  to  see? 

And  bring  the  little  ones  around 
To  climb  to  father's  arms; 

While  her  sweet  face,  the  face  of  yore. 
To  mother-beauty  warms? 

And  we  go,  laughing,  weeping,  through 
Some  gate  of  crystal  dome. 

While  love  grows  godlike  more  and  more, 
To  greet  the  wanderer  home. 


Departure 

Old  house  now  ruined,  wrecked  and  grey. 
Home  once  enshrined  of  love's  delight 

And  all  glad  promise  of  the  May, 

Now  hushed  in  shades  of  wintry  night, — 

Once  garment  of  a  thousand  loves. 

Now  but  a  shroud  of  glooming  stone, — 

While  sad  October  moans  and  roves. 
Old  house,  old  house,  we  are  alone ! 

We  are  alone ;  yea,  you  and  I, 

Who  dreamed  old  summers  in  their  prime; 
Now  sad  and  late,  to  see  them  die 

Along  this  ruined  verge  of  time. 

Old  rooms  now  empty,  once  so  bright, — 
Staircases  climbed  of  gladdening  feet. 

Dark  windows  erstwhile  filled  with  light 
Where  now  but  rains  of  autumn  beat ;— » ■ 


DEPARTURE  203 

Where  now  but  lorn  months  call  and  call. 
And  sea  and  gust  and  night  complain, — - 

With  ghost-boughs  shadowing  on  the  wall. 
Or  dead  vines  knocking  at  the  pane. 

Old  place,  whose  ceilings,  walls  and  floors 

Still  redolent  of  love  and  May, 
Once  more,  once  more  I  leave  your  doors. 

Into  the  night  I  take  my  way. 

Huge  yawning  hearths,  once  flaming  bright 
On  many  a  well-loved  face  and  form 

Ijong  gathered  out  unto  the  night 

To  meet  the  vastness  and  the  storm, — 

Into  the  night ;  where  I,  too,  go. 

Beyond  your  sheltering  walls  and  doors; 

Where  death's  October  drives  his  woe 
Over  a  thousand  midnight  moors. 

Beyond  your  sheltering,  where  I  beat 
To  sleep  with  stars  of  dark  o'ergleamed, 

Or  breast  the  night  of  moan  and  sleet 

To  meet  that  mom  a  world  hath  dreamed. 

Hath  dreamed?    Hope-hungering  heart  hath  read, 

And  caroled  morning-lifted  lark ! 
Yea,  back  of  all  this  muffled  dread 

Perchance  some  splendor  rifts  the  dark. 

Yea,  though  no  magic  reach  its  gleams, 
Nor  heart  of  doubting  prove  it  true, 

Old  house,  beloved,  of  my  dead  dreams. 
While  I  go  forth  from  love  and  you. 


204  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Her  Look 

Time  may  set  his  fingers  there, 

Fix  the  smiles  that  curve  about 
Her  winsome  mouth,  and  touch  her  hair. 

Put  the  curves  of  youth  to  rout ; 
But  the  "something"  God  put  there, 

That  which  drew  me  to  her  first, 
Not  the  imps  of  pain  and  care, 

Not  all  sorrow's  fiends  accurst. 
Can  kill  the  look  that  God  put  there. 

Something  beautiful  and  rare, 

Nothing  common  can  destroy; 
Not  all  the  leaden  load  of  care. 

Not  all  the  dross  of  earth's  alloy; 
Better  than  all  fame  or  gold. 

True  as  only  God's  own  truth 
It  is  something  all  hearts  hold 

Who  have  loved  once  in  their  youth. 

That  sweet  look  her  face  doth  hold 

Thus  will  ever  be  to  me; 
Joy  may  all  her  pinions  fold, 

Care  may  come  and  misery ; 
Through  the  days  of  murk  and  shine. 

Though  the  roads  be  foul  or  fair, 
I  will  see  through  love's  glad  eyne 

That  sweet  look  that  God  put  there. 


Dramatic,  Classic  ant)  imaginative  Derse 


TH£  LAST  SCENE  FROM  ''MORDRED"      207 


The  Last  Scene  from  "  Mordred  ** 

Another  part  of  the  field.     Enter  Arthur  surrounded 
by  knights. 

Arthur.    Now  where  is  he,,  that  monster,  foul; 

deformed 
In  shape  and  spirit,  Nature  calls  my  son? 

Enter  Mordred. 
Mordred.    Here ! 

Arthur.    Ah,  Blot  on  all  this  sunlight.  Creature  dire. 
Spawn  of  mine  incest.    There  standest  thou  my  sin. 
Incarnate  now  before  me,  mine  old  doom ; 
Thou  that  wast  stronger  in  thine  influences 
To  work  dread  evil  in  this  hideous  world 
Than  all  the  glory  all  my  good  might  win. 
Mordred.    Father ! 

Arthur.     Yea,  well  say  Father !     Parent  I  this  ill 
That  hath  enrent  my  kingdom  all  in  twain. 
In  that  dread  night  of  my  licentious  youth. 
When  I  in  darkness  thy  foul  shape  begot, 
I  worked  a  web  of  blackness  round  my  fate 
And  thine,  distorted  phantom  of  my  sin. 
Not  all  the  tolling  of  sweet  abbey-bells. 
And  murmur  of  masses  sung  these  thousand  years. 
Can  sweep  from  this  doomed  kingdom.     Father !  yea. 
There  is  no  truce  betwixt  us.    Thou  art  Death 
To  all  that  I  hold  dearest  on  this  earth. 
Thou  stood'st  betwixt  me  and  my  gladder  fate. 
The  one  black  spot  on  all  my  glory^s  sun. 
In  tliee  once  more  mine  evil  blackens  in, 
Eeddens  mine  eyesight.     Have  at  thee,  foul  Curse  I 
Mordred.    Father ! 


a08  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Arthur.    Have  at  you ! 

(They  fight.    Arthur  wounds  Mordred.    He  falls. 
A  Knight  stabs  Arthur  from  behind.) 
Arthur.  Ho !  all  the  sunlight  blackens !  Mordred !   Oh ! 
My  glory  darkens!     Curtain  not  yon  sun!     (Dies.) 
Mordred.    Yea,  this  is  all  and  I  were  made  for  this, 
To  scatter  death  and  desolation  round 
On  this  fair  kingdom,  ruin  this  sweet  land. 
And  level  all  the  pride  of  Arthur's  glory. 
As  men  might  level  some  great  castle  walls 
And  sow  with  salt  the  fields  of  his  desire. 
And  make  him  mock  before  the  eyes  of  men. 
Turn  all  his  great  joy  into  bitterness. 
Yea,  I  his  blood,  and  I  were  made  for  this. 
Oh,  ancient,  cruel  Laws  of  human  life. 
Oh,  deep,  mysterious,  unfathomable  Source 
Of  man's  poor  being,  we  are  ringed  about 
With  such  hard  rinds  of  hellish  circumstance. 
That  we  can  never  walk  or  breathe  or  hope. 
Or  eye  the  sun,  or  ponder  on  the  green 
Of  tented  plain,  or  glorious  blue  of  heaven, 
Or  know  love's  joy,  or  knotted  thews  of  strength. 
But  imps  of  evil  thoughts  creep  in  between. 
Like  lizards  in  the  chinks  of  some  fair  wall. 
And  mar  life's  splendor  and  its  fairness  all. 
'Tis  some  damned  birth-doom  blended  in  the  blood 
That  prophesies  our  end  in  our  poor  acts. 
Oh !  we  are  but  blind  children  of  the  dark. 
Wending  a  way  we  neither  make  nor  ken. 
Yea,  Arthur,  I  had  loved  thee  sweet  and  well. 
And  made  mine  arm  a  bulwark  to  thy  realm. 
Had  I  been  but  as  fair  as  Lancelot. 
What  evil  germ,  false  quickening  of  the  blood, 
Did  breed  me  foul,  distorted  as  I  am. 
That  I  should  mar  this  earth  and  thy  great  realm 
With  my  wry,  knotted  sorrows  ?    Lancelot's  love 


THE  LAST  SCENE  FROM  " MORDRED"      209 

Was  manly,  kind,  and  generous  as  became 

A  soul  encased  in  such  propitious  frame. 

The  kingly  trees  well  turn  them  to  the  sun. 

And  glory  in  their  splendor  with  the  morn. 

'Tis  natural  that  noble  souls  should  dwell 

'Twixt  noble  features,  but  the  maimed  soul 

Should  ever  be  found  in  the  distorted  shape. 

But  I  had  loved  as  never  man  hath  loved 

Did  nature  only  plant  me  sweet  at  first. 

{To  his  Knights.)     And  now  I  die,  and  blessed  be  my 

death. 
More  blessed  far  that  I  had  never  breathed. 
]\Iurder  and  Treason  were  my  midwives  dire, 
Uapine  and  Carnage,  priests  that  shrive  me  now. 

Enter  Vivien,  disguised  as  a  Squire. 
Vivien.    Mordred !  thou  diest ! 
Mordred.    Who  art  thou? 
Vivien.    I  am  Vivien. 

Mordred.     Hence,  hence.  Viper,  incarnate  Fiend! 
Not  natural  woman,  but  Ambition  framed. 
And  all  lust's  envy.    Thou  wert  unto  me 
A  blacker  blackness.    Did  an  angel  come. 
And  whisper  sweeter  counsel  in  mine  ears, 
And  trumpet  hopes  that  all  were  not  in  vain; 
And  thou  wouldst  wool  mine  ears  with  malice  dire, 
And  play  upon  the  black  chords  of  my  heart. 
ITence,  Devil !    Mar  not  these  my  closing  hours. 
Vivien.    0,  Woe!   Woe!   (Steals  out.) 
Mordred.     (To  the  Knights.)     Now  bear  me  slowly  to 

great  Arthur's  side 
And  let  me  place  my  hands  upon  his  breast. 
For  he  was  mine  own  father !    Alas !   Alas ! 
So  hideous  is  this  nature  we  endure ! 

(The  Soldiers  place  him  hy  Arthur.) 
How  calm  he  sleeps,  Allencthon,  as  those  should 
Who  die  in  glorious  battle.    Dost  thou  know, 


210  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

0  mighty  Father,  that  thine  ill-got  son, 
Ill-got  of  nature  and  mysterious  night. 
To  mar  thy  splendor  and  enwreck  this  world, 
Now  crawls  to  thy  dead  body  near  his  death. 
As  would  some  wounded  dog  of  faithful  days, 
To  lick  his  master's  hand?    Blame  not,  0  King, 
If  thou  somewhere  may  know  what  I  here  feel. 
Thy  poor,  misshapen  Mordred.    Blame  him  not 
The  turbulent,  treacherous  currents  of  his  blood 
Which  were  a  part  of  thine,  nor  let  one  thought 
Of  his  past  evil  mar  thy  mighty  rest ; 
He  would  have  loved  thee;  but  remember  that. 
Now  past  is  all  this  splendor,  new  worlds  come; 
But  nevermore  will  Britain  know  such  grace. 
Such  lofty  glory  and  such  splendid  days. 
Back  of  the  clang  of  battle,  back  of  all 
The  mists  of  life,  the  clamor  and  the  fall 
Of  ruined  kingdoms  built  on  human  days; 
Arthur !  Merlin !  Mighty  dead,  I  come ! 

(Springs  to  his  feet.) 
Ho!     Horse!     To  Horse!     My  sword!     A  trumpet 

calls! 
A  Mordred  I  (Dies.) 


Pan  the  Fallen 

He  wandered  into  the  market 

"With  pipes  and  goatish  hoof; 
He  wandered  in  a  grotesque  shape. 

And  no  one  stood  aloof. 
For  the  children  crowded  round  him. 

The  wives  and  greybeards,  too. 
To  crack  their  jokes  and  have  their  mirth, 

And  see  what  Pan  would  do. 


PAN  THE  FALLEN  211 

The  Pan  he  was  they  knew  him, 

Part  man,  but  mostly  beast. 
Who  drank,  and  lied,  and  snatched  what  bones 

Men  threw  him  from  their  feast; 
Who  seemed  in  sin  so  merry. 

So  careless  in  his  woe. 
That  men  despised,  scarce  pitied  him. 

And  still  would  have  it  so. 

He  swelled  his  pipes  and  thrilled  them. 

And  drew  the  silent  tear; 
He  made  the  gravest  clack  with  mirth 

By  his  sardonic  leer. 
He  blew  his  pipes  full  sweetly 

At  their  amused  demands. 
And  caught  the  scornful,  earth-flung  pence 

That  fell  from  careless  hands. 

He  saw  the  mob's  derision. 

And  took  it  kindly,  too, 
And  when  an  epithet  was  flung, 

A  coarser  back  he  threw; 
But  imder  all  the  masking 

Of  a  brute,  unseemly  part, 
I  looked,  and  saw  a  wounded  soul. 

And  a  godlike,  breaking  heart. 

And  back  of  the  elfin  music. 

The  burlesque,  clownish  play, 
I  knew  a  wail  that  the  weird  pipes  made, 

A  look  that  was  far  away, — 
A  gaze  into  some  far  heaven 

Whence  a  soul  had  fallen  down; 
But  the  mob  only  saw  the  grotesque  beast 

And  the  antics  of  the  clown. 
14 


212  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

For  scant-flung  pence  he  paid  them 

With  mirth  and  elfin  play, 
Till,  tired  for  a  time  of  his  antics  queer. 

They  passed  and  went  their  way ; 
Then  there  in 'the  empty  market 

He  ate  his  scanty  crust, 
And,  tired  face  turned  to  heaven,  down 

He  laid  him  in  the  dust. 

And  over  his  wild,  strange  features 

A  softer  light  there  fell. 
And  on  his  worn,  earth-driven  heart 

A  peace  ineffable. 
And  the  moon  rose  over  the  market. 

But  Pan  the  beast  was  dead; 
While  Pan  the  god  lay  silent  there. 

With  his  strange,  distorted  head. 

And  the  people,  when  they  found  him, 

Stood  still  with  awesome  fear. 
No  more  they  saw  the  beast^s  rude  hoof. 

The  furtive,  clownish  leer; 
But  the  lightest  spirit  in  that  strong 

Went  silent  from  the  place. 
For  they  knew  the  look  of  a  god  released 

That  shone  from  his  dead  face. 


Phaethon 

I  Phaethon  :  dwelling  in  that  golden  house. 
Which  Hephaistos  did  build  for  my  great  sire. 
Old  Helios,  king  of  glowing  heaven  and  day; 
Knowing  this  life  but  mortal  in  its  span, 
Hedged  in  by  puling  youth  and  palsied  age. 
Where  poor  men  crawl  like  insects,  knowing  pain 


PHAETHON  213 

And  mighty  sorrow  to  the  gates  of  death ; 

Besought  the  god  my  father  by  his  love 

To  grant  me  that  which  I  did  long  for  most 

Of  all  things  great  in  earth  and  heaven  and  sea. 

The  which  he  granting  in  his  mighty  love, — 

Of  all  things  splendid  under  the  splendid  sky 

Built  of  old  by  toil  of  ancient  gods, 

To  me  the  dearest ;  for  one  round  golden  day, 

To  stand  in  his  great  chariot  built  of  fire. 

And  chase  the  rosy  hours  from  dawn  to  dusk, 

Guiding  his  fleeting  steeds  o'er  heaven's  floors. 

He  gave  to  me. — No  god  yet  brake  his  word. 

Speaking  to  me  in  sorrow :  "  0  my  son. 

Know  what  my  foolish  pride  hath  made  for  thee. 

That  mortal  life  which  is  to  men  a  span. 

From  childhood  unto  youth,  and  manhood's  prime, 

Reaching  on  out  to  happy  olden  age, 

For  thee  must  shrink  into  one  woeful  day. 

For,  0  my  son,  impetuous  in  thy  pride. 

Who  would  be  as  the  gods  and  ape  their  ways. 

And  sacrilegious  leave  thy  mortal  bounds, — 

Know  thou  must  die  upon  that  baleful  day. 

That  terrible  day  of  days  thou  mountest  up 

To  ride  that  chariot  never  mortal  rode. 

And  drive  those  steeds  that  never  man  hath  driven.** 

Then  I — "  My  father,  know  me,  thine  own  son. 

Better  to  me  to  live  one  day  a  god. 

Going  out  in  some  great  flame  of  death. 

Than  live  this  weary  life  of  common  men, 

Misunderstood,  misunderstanding  still. 

Half  wakeful,  moving  dimly  in  a  dream. 

Confused,  phantasmic,  men  call  history; 

Chasing  the  circles  of  the  perishing  suns. 

The  summers  and  dim  winters,  hating  all. 

Heart-eaten  for  a  longing  ne'er  attained, 


2U  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Despising  all  things  named  of  earth  or  heaven, 

Or  mortal  birth  that  they  should  ever  be ; 

Knowing  within  this  mystery  of  my  being, 

This  curbed  heredity,  lies  a  latent  dream 

Of  some  old  vanished,  banished,  lease  of  being, 

"When  life  was  life  and  man's  soul  lived  its  hour, 

TJncurbed,  uncabined,  like  the  mighty  gods, 

Vast,  splendid,  capable,  and  heraclean, 

To  drain  the  golden  beaker  of  his  days/* 

Thus  I — "  My  father,  I  am  over  weary. 

Chained  in  this  summer-plot  of  circumstance, 

Beaten  by  fearful  custom,  childish,  chidden. 

Hounded  of  cruel  wolves  of  superstition. 

And  rounded  by  a  petty  wall  of  time, 

Plodding  the  dreary  years  that  wend  their  round. 

Aping  the  sleeping,  sensual  life  of  beasts. 

Fearful  of  all  things,  dreading  mostly  death. 

Past  pain  and  age  and  all  their  miseried  end. 

Where  all  must  rot,  who  smile  and  weep  and  sleep. 

And  be  a  part  of  all  this  grim  corruption. 

Nay,  better  to  me  than  the  long-measured  draught. 

Trickling  out  through  many  anxious  years, 

Iron-eaten,  haggard,  to  the  place  of  death — 

To  drain  my  flagon  of  life  in  one  glad  draught, — 

To  live,  to  love,  aspire,  and  dare  all  things ; 

Be  all  I  am  and  others  ought  to  be, 

Eeal  man  or  demi-god,  to  blossom  my  rose. 

To  scale  my  heights,  to  live  my  vastest  dream. 

To  climb,  to  be,  and  then,  if  chance  my  fate. 

To  greatly  fall." 

Then  my  great  father,  laden 
With  woe  divine,  "  My  son,  take  thou  thy  way ; 
As  thou  hast  chosen,  thus  'twill  be  to  thee ;" 
And  passing,  darkened  down  his  godlike  face 
And  shadowed  splendor  thence  for  evermore.- 


PHAETHON  215 

Twas  night  ambrosial  down  the  orient  meads. 
With  stars  like  winking  pearls,  far-studding  heaven. 
And  dews  all  glorious  on  the  bending  stem, 
Odorous,  passionate  as  the  rose  of  sleep 
Half-budded  on  the  throbbing  heart  of  night; 
And  in  the  east  a  glowing  sapphire  gloomed. 
When  I  awoke  and  lifted  up  mine  eyes, 
And  saw  through  rose  and  gold  and  vermeil  dyes. 
And  splendid  mists  of  azure  hung  with  pearl. 
Half-hid,  half -seen,  as  life  would  apprehend, 
As  in  a  sleep,  the  presence  of  dim  death 
And  fate  and  terrible  gods,  the  car  of  day. 

Like  morn  within  the  morning,  glad,  it  hung. 
Light  hid  in  light,  swift  blinding  all  who  saw. 
Dazzled,  its  presence;  motionless  though  vibrate. 
Where  it  did  swing  athwart  the  deep-welled  night, 
The  heart  of  morning  in  the  folds  of  dark. 
Pulsating  sleep,  and  conquering  death  with  life; 
So  glowed  its  glory,  folded,  cloud  in  cloud. 
Gold  within  azure,  purple  shut  in  gold, 
The  bud  of  morning  pulsing  ere  it  break, 
And  spill  its  splendors  many  vermeil-dyed. 
Reddening  Ocean  to  his  outmost  rim. 

Here  charmed  dreams  and  drowsed  magic  hung. 
And  winged  hopes  and  rosy  joys  afloat 
Filled  all  the  air,  and  I  was  short  aware 
That  this  was  life,  and  this  mine  hour  supreme. 
To  seize  and  act  and  be  one  with  the  gods. 
So  dreamed  I  reckless  when  to  think,  to  act. 
And  moved,  elate,  with  quick  life-flaming  step 
Athwart  the  meadow's  budding  asphodels. 
Song  on  my  lip,  and  life  at  heart  and  eye. 
Exultant,  breathing  flame  of  pride  and  power. 


216  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Zorj  rose  and  sang,  a  bird,  across  the  fields, 

Hope's  rosy  wings  shot  trembling  to  the  blue, 

And  courage  with  dauntless  steps  before  me  went. 

Brushing  the  veils  of  fierce  cobwebby  fires. 

And  there,  before  me,  sprawled  grim  ancient  Power, 

A  hideous  Ethiop,  huge  in  sodden  sleep. 

The  golden  reins  clutched  in  his  titan  hands. 

I  snatched,  leaped,  shouted ;  morning  rose  in  flame. 

And  ashweed  paled  to  lily,  lily  blushed 

To  ruddy  crocus,  crocus  flamed  to  rose. 

And  out  of  all,  borne  on  the  floors  of  light, 

I  floated,  gloried,  up  the  orient  walls, 

And  all  things  woke,  and  sang  of  conquering  day. 

Higher,  yet  higher,  out  of  fiery  mists. 
Filling  those  meadows  of  the  dew-built  dawn. 
Gloried  and  glorying,  power  clutched  in  my  hand. 
Wreathed  about  in  terrible  spendors,  I  drave, 
Glowing,  the  dawn's  gold  coursers,  champing  steam 
Of  snow  and  pearly  foam  from  golden  bridles, 
Forged  in  blue  eidolon  forges  of  the  night. 
Beaten  on  steely  anvils  of  the  stars. 
These,  champing,  reared  their  fetlocks;  breathing 

flame. 
In  red,  dew-draining  lances,  thundered  on, 
'Whelming  night,  as  golden  stair  by  stair 
They  climbed  the  glimmering  bridgeway  of  the  day. 

Far  under,  wreathed  in  mists,  old  ocean  swayed; 
And,  cyclops-like,  the  bearded  mountains  hung. 
Vast  shining  rivers  with  their  brimming  floors 
And  broad  curved  courses  gleamed  and  glanced  and 

shone. 
And  loneliness  and  gloom  and  grey  despair 


PHAETHON  217 

With  sombre  hauntings  fled  to  shuddering  night, 

Hidden  in  caves  and  coral  glooms  of  seas. 

Low  down  the  east  the  morn's  ambrosial  meads 

Sank  in  soft  splendors.    Sphering  out  below, 

Gilded  in  morning,  anchored  the  patient  earth. 

Mountain  and  valley,  ocean  and  wide  plain. 

Opening  to  dawn's  young  footsteps  where  we  wheeled. 

And  blossomed  wide  the  rosebud  of  the  day. 

Glory  was  mine,  but  greater,  sense  of  power. 

Nor  marred  by  fear,  as  loftier  we  climbed, 

With  glinting  hoofs,  that  clanged  the  azure  bridge 

That  arched  from  dawning  up  to  flaming  noon. 

Dauntless  my  soul,  and  fiery-glad  my  heart, 

And  "  vastness,"  "  vastness,"  sang  through  all  my 

being. 
As  gloved  with  adamant  I  guided  on 
The  day's  red  coursers  up  their  flaming  hill, 
To  reach  the  mighty  keystone  of  the  day. 

All  things  conspired  to  build  my  upward  road : 
The  fitful  winds  of  morning,  the  soft  clouds. 
That  fleece-like  swept  my  cheek,  the  azure  glint 
Of  ocean  swaying,  restless,  on  his  rim. 
Where  slept  the  continents  like  a  serpent  curled 
In  sleep,  leviathan,  huge,  about  the  world. 

Then  sudden  all  my  waking  turned  to  dream, 
A  madness  wherein,  hideous,  all  things  hung. 
Thought  fled  confused,  and  awful  apprehension 
Shadowed  my  spirit,  power  and  reason  fled ; 
And,  maddening,  day's  red  coursers  thundered  on. 
Uncurbed,  unguided  by  my  palsied  hand. 
Then  with  loud  ruin,  blundering  from  the  bridge, 
Through  space  went  swaying,  now  high  up,  now 
down. 


218  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Scattering  conflagration  and  fierce  death 

O'er  earth's   shrunk  verges  where  their   scorchings 

scarred. 
Time  fled  in  terror,  forests  shriveled  up, 
Ocean  drew  back  in  shudderings  to  his  caves. 
Huge  mountains  shook  and  rumbled  to  their  base. 
Great  streams  dried  up,  old  cities  smoked  and  fell, 
And  all  life  met  confusion  and  despair, 
And  dread  annihilation. 

Then  the  gods. 
Pitying  wrecked  nature,  in  their  sudden  vengeance, 
Me,  impious,  hurled  from  out  my  dizzying  height. 
Time  vanished,  reason  swooned,  then  left  her  throne, 
And  darkness  wrapt  me  as  I  shuddering  fell, 
Oblivion-clouded,  to  the  plunging  seas. 
Ocean  received  me,  folding  in  his  deeps. 
Cooling  and  emerald.    Here  in  coral  dreams 
I  rest  and  cure  me,  never  wholly  waking. 
Filled  with  one  splendor,  fumbling  in  a  dream. 
As  waves  do  fumble  all  about  a  cave. 
For  one  clear  memory  of  that  one  high  day. 

I  failed,  was  mortal ;  where  I  climbed  I  fell. 
But  all  else  little  matters ;  life  was  mine, 
I  dreamed,  I  dared,  I  grappled  with,  I  fell ; 
And  here  I  live  it  over  in  my  dreams. 
All  things  may  pass,  decline,  and  come  to  naught. 
Death  'whelm  life  as  day  engulfed  in  dark ; 
But  I  have  greatly  lived,  have  greatly  dared, 
And  death  will  never  wholly  wrap  me  round 
And  black  me  in  its  terrors.    I  am  made 
One  with  the  future,  dwelling  in  the  dreams 
And  memories  dread  of  envious  gods  and  men. 


S//^  LANCELOT  J 

Sir  Lancelot 

He  rode,  a  king,  amid  the  armored  knights. 
The  glory  of  day  tossing  on  helm  and  shield. 
And  all  the  glory  of  his  youth  and  joy 
In  the  strong,  wine-like  splendor  of  his  face. 
He  rode  among  them,  the  one  man  of  men. 
Their  lordliest,  loveliest,  he  who  might  have  been, 
Because  of  very  human  breadth  of  love. 
And  his  glad,  winning  sympathy  for  earth. 
Greater  than  even  Arthur  under  heaven. 

Kindlier  than  the  morning  was  his  face. 

Swift,  like  the  lightning,  was  his  eagle  glance, 

No  bit  of  beauty  earth  had  ever  held. 

Of  child  or  flower  or  dream  of  woman's  face. 

Or  noble,  passing  godliness  of  mood. 

In  man  toward  man,  but  garnered  in  his  eye. 

As  in  some  mere  that  gathereth  all  earth's  face. 

And  foldeth  it  in  beauty  to  its  breast. 

He  rode  among  them,  Arthur's  own  right  hand, 
Arthur,  whom  he  loved  as  John  loved  Christ, 
And  watched  each  day  with  joy  that  lofty  brow 
Lift  up  its  lonely  splendor,  isolate. 
Half  godlike,  o'er  that  serried  host  of  spears ; 
And  Imew  his  love  the  kingliest,  holiest  thing, 
'Twixt  man  and  man  upon  this  glowing  earth. 

So  passed  those  days  of  splendor  and  of  peace. 
When  all  men  loved  his  majesty  and  strength 
And  kindliness  of  spirit,  which  the  king. 
Great  Arthur,  with  his  lofty  coldness  lacked. 


220  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

'Twas  Lancelot  fought  the  mightiest  in  the  lists. 
And  beat  with  thunders  back  the  brazen  shields, 
And  stormed  the  fastness  of  the  farthest  isles. 
Slaying  the  grizzly  warriors  of  the  meres. 
And  winning  all  men's  fealty  and  love, 
And  worship  of  fair  women  in  the  towers. 
Who  laid  their  distaffs  down  to  watch  him  pass ; 
And  made  the  hot  blood  mantle  each  fair  cheek, 
With  sweet  sense  of  his  presence,  till  all  men 
Called  Arthur  half  a  god,  and  Lancelot 
The  greatest  heart  that  beat  in  his  great  realm. 

Then  came  that  fatal  day  that  brake  his  life. 
When  he,  being  sent  of  Arthur,  all  unknowing. 
Saw  Guinevere,  like  some  fair  flower  of  heaven, 
As  men  may  only  see  in  dreams  the  gods 
Do  send  to  kill  the  common  ways  of  earth, 
And  make  all  else  but  drear  and  dull  and  bleak; 
Such  magic  she  did  work  upon  his  soul. 
Till  Arthur,  God,  and  all  the  Table  Eound, 
Were  but  a  nebulous  mist  before  his  eyes. 
In  which  the  splendor  of  her  beauty  shone. 

Henceforth  the  years  would  rise  and  wane  and  die. 

And  glory  come  and  glory  pass  away, 

And  battles  pass  as  in  a  troubled  dream. 

And  Arthur  be  a  ghost,  and  his  knights  ghosts; — 

The  castles  and  the  lists  and  the  mad  fights. 

Sacking  of  cities,  scourging  of  country-sides, 

All  dreams  before  his  eyes ; — all,  save  her  love. 

So  girded  she  her  magic  round  his  heart. 

And  meshed  him  in  a  golden  mesh  of  love, 

And  marred  his  sense  of  all  earth's  splendor  there. 

But  in  the  after-days  when  brake  the  end. 
And  she  had  fled  to  Glastonbury's  cells. 


S/J^  LANCELOT  221 

"With  all  the  world  one  clamor  at  her  sin ; 

And  Arthur  like  a  storm-smit  pine-tree  stood,  • 

Alone  amid  his  kingdom's  blackened  ruins; — 

Then  Lancelot  knew  his  life  an  evil  dream, 

And  thought  him  of  the  friendship  of  their  youth, 

And  all  the  days  that  they  had  been  together. 

And  "Arthur,  Arthur,"  spake  from  all  the  meres, 

And  "  Arthur,  Arthur,"  moaned  from  days  afar. 

And  Lancelot  grieved  him  of  his  woeful  sin : — 

"  And  this  the  hand  that  smote  mine  Arthur  down. 

That  brake  his  glory,  ruined  his  great  hope 

Of  one  vast  kingdom  built  on  noble  deeds. 

And  truth  and  peace  for  many  days  to  be. 

This  hand  that  should  have  been  his  truest  strength, 

Next  to  that  high  honor  which  he  held." 

And  all  the  torrents  of  his  sorrow  brake 

For  his  own  Arthur — Arthur  standing  lone. 

Like  some  unriven  pine  that  towers  alone 

Amid  the  awful  ruins  of  a  world. 

And  then  a  woeful  longing  smote  him  there. 

To  ride  by  murk  and  moon,  by  mere  and  waste, 

To  where  the  king  made  battle  with  his  foes, 

And  look,  unknown,  upon  his  face,  and  die. 

So  thinking  this  he  fled,  and  the  queen's  wraith, 
A  memory,  in  the  moonlight  fled  with  hira. 
But  stronger  with  him  fled  his  gladder  youth 
And  all  the  memories  of  the  splendid  past. 
Until  his  heart  yearned  for  the  days  that  were, 
And  that  great,  noble  soul  who  fought  alone. 

Then  coming  by  cock-crow  and  the  glimmering  dawn, 
He  reached  the  grey-walled  castle  of  the  land. 
Where  the  king  tarried  ere  he  went  to  fight 
The  last  dread  battle  of  the  Table  Eound. 


222  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  the  grim  sentinels  who  guarded  there. 

Thinking  only  of  him  as  Arthur's  friend. 

And  knowing  not  the  Lancelot  scandal  named, 

And  judging  by  the  sorrow  of  his  face. 

Deemed  him  spme  knight  who  came  to  aid  the  king. 

And  pointing  past  the  waning  beacon  fires, 

Said,  "  There  he  sleeps  as  one  who  hath  no  woes." 

And  Lancelot  passing  silent  left  them  there. 
And  entering  the  old  abbey,  ('twas  some  ruin 
Of  piety  and  worship  of  past  days,) 
Saw  in  the  flicker  of  a  dying  hearth. 
Mingled  with  faint  glimmering  of  the  dawn. 
The  great  king  sleeping,  where  a  mighty  cross 
Threw  its  dread  shadow  o'er  his  moving  breast. 

And  Lancelot  knew  the  same  strong,  godlike  face 
That  he  had  worshipped  in  the  days  no  more ; 
And  all  their  olden  gladness  smote  him  now. 
And  he  had  wept  but  that  his  awful  sin, 
That  made  a  wall  of  flame  betwixt  them  there. 
Had  seared  the  very  fountains  of  his  soul. 
Whereat  he  moaned,  "  0  noble,  saintly  heart, 
Couldst  thou  but  know  amidst  thine  innocent  sleep, 
Save  for  the  awful  sin  that  flames  between. 
That  here  doth  stand  the  Lancelot  of  old  days. 
The  one  of  all  the  world  who  loved  thee  most, 
The  joyous  friend  of  all  thy  glorious  youth; 
0  noble!  godlike!    Lancelot,  who  hath  sinned 
As  none  hath  sinned  against  thee,  now  hath  come 
To  gaze  upon  thy  majesty  and  die. 
0  Arthur !  thou  great  Arthur  of  my  youth, 
My  sun,  my  joy,  my  glory !" 

Here  the  king 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  murmured,  "  Guinevere  1" 


S/Ji  LANCELOT  223 

And  Lancelot,  feeling  that  an  age  of  ages, 
Hoary  with  all  anguish  of  old  crime 
And  hideous  bloodshed,  were  now  builded  up 
Betwixt  him  and  the  king  at  that  one  name. 
Clothed  with  the  mad  despairings  of  his  shame. 
Stole  like  some  shrunken  ghost-life  from  that  place. 
To  look  no  more  upon  great  Arthur's  face. 

Then  it  did  smite  upon  him  he  must  die ; 
And  in  him  the  old  ghost  of  honor  woke 
That  he  must  die  in  battle,  and  go  out 
Where  no  dread  sorrow  could  gnaw  at  his  heart, 
But  all  forgetting  and  eternal  sleep. 

"Whereat  the  madness  of  old  battle  woke. 
For  his  dread  sin  now  burned  all  softness  out. 
And  the  glad  kindliness  of  the  Table  Eound, 
And  left  him,  shorn  of  all  the  Christian  knight. 
The  gentle  lord  who  only  smote  to  save. 
Or  shield  the  helpless  from  the  brutal  stroke; 
And  flamed  his  heart  there  with  the  lust  to  slay. 
And  slaying  be  slain  as  his  grim  sires  went  out. 

Then  some  far  trumpet  startled  all  the  morn. 
Trembling  westward  from  its  dewy  sleep. 
And  with  the  day  new  battle  woke  the  meres. 
And  as  a  wood-wolf  scents  the  prey  afar. 
The  noise  of  coming  battle  smote  his  ears. 
And  woke  in  him  the  fierceness  of  his  race. 
And  the  old  pagan,  joyous  lust  of  fight. 
And  crying,  "  Farewell,  Arthur,  mine  old  youth, 
Farewell,  Lancelot,  mine  old  kinder  self, 
Lancelot,  Arthur's  brother,  lie  there  low, 
Slain  with  the  glory  wherewithal  you  fell. 


224  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

While  this  new  Lancelot,  new-bred  of  old  time. 
Before  the  new  hope  of  the  loftier  day, 
Before  the  reign  of  mercy  and  glad  law, 
Thunders  in  old  madness  forth  to  war/* 

And  as  in  some  bleak  ruin  of  a  house 

^Vhere  all  the  sweet,  home  joys  are  ravaged  out. 

And  some  grim,  evil  pack  hath  entered  in 

To  tear  and  snarl,  so  the  old  Lancelot  passed. 

And  where  he  closed  the  battle's  fiercest  shock 

Did  hem  him  round,  till  as  a  mighty  surf. 

That  clamors,  thundering  round  some  seaward  tower, 

Toward  him  the  battle  roared,  and  clanged  his  shield. 

And  fast  his  blade  went  circling  in  the  sun, 

Like  some  red,  flaming  wheel,  where'er  he  went; 

Nor  cared  for  friend  or  foe,  so  that  he  slew. 

And  drank  his  cup  of  madness  to  the  death. 

Till  those  he  fought  with  dreamed  a  giant  earl 

Of  grim  old  days  had  come  once  more  to  earth. 

To  fight  anew  the  battles  of  his  youth. 

But  some  huge  islesmen  of  the  west  were  there: 
And  they  were  fain  to  hew  him  down,  and  came 
Like  swift,  loud  storm  of  autumn  at  him  there. 
Then  there  grew  clamor  of  the  reddest  fight 
That  ever  man  beheld,  and  all  outside 
Were  stayed  in  awe  to  see  that  one  man  fight 
With  that  dread  host  of  wilding  warriors  there. 
Nor  stayed  his  awful  brand,  but  left  and  right 
WTiirled  he  its  bloody  fiamings  in  the  sun, 
And  men  went  down  as  in  October  woods 
Do  crash  the  mighty  trunks  before  the  blast. 
Till  all  were  slain  but  one  grim  islesman  left. 
But  Lancelot  by  this  was  all  one  stream 
Of  ruddy  wounds,  and  like  some  fire  his  brain. 


THE    WAYFARER  225 

And,  with  one  awful  shout  of  battle  joy. 
He  sent  his  sword-blade  wheeling  in  the  sun, 
And  cleft  that  mighty  islesman  to  the  neck; 
And  crying,  "  Arthur  P'  smote  the  earth,  and  died. 

Then  spread  such  terror  over  all  the  foe. 

That  gods  did  fight  with  them  there,  that  they  fled. 

And  all  that  day  the  battle  moved  afar, 

Out  to  the  west  by  distant  copse  and  mere. 

Till  died  the  tumult,  and  the  night  came  in. 

With  mighty  hush  far  over  all  that  waste. 

And  one  l^  one  the  lonely  stars  came  out. 

And  over  the  meres  the  wintry  moon  looked  down. 

Unmindful  of  poor  Lancelot  and  his  wounds, 

His  dead,  lost  youth,  the  stillness  of  his  face. 

And  all  that  awful  carnage  silent  there. 


The  Wayfarer 

He  woke  with  the  dawning, 
IMet  eyes  with  the  sun. 

And  drank  the  wild  rapture 
Of  living  begun. 

But  he  went  with  the  moment 

To  follow  the  clue. 
Ere  the  first  red  of  dawning 

Had  drunk  the  blue  dew. 

Follow  him,  follow  him. 
Where  the  world  will, 

Under  the  sunlight 
By  meadow  and  hill. 


2M         POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Down  the  blue  distance, 
Eound  the  world's  rim, 

Where  the  hosts  of  the  future 
Are  horning  for  him. 

Follow  him,  call  to  him. 
Pray  to  him.  Sweet, 

TeU  him  the  morning 
Is  fresh  for  his  feet; 

Sing  him  the  rapture. 
The  glamor,  the  gleam, 

Of  pearly  dew-azure 

That  curtains  the  stream; 

Sing  the  glad  thrush-note 
That  never  knew  pain, 

But  sing  him  and  call  him 
And  pray  him  in  vain. 

For  ere  the  red  dewdrop 
In  sunlight  was  pearled. 

He  heard  that  mad  ocean 
That  whelms  the  world. 

Yea,  heard  that  voice  calling 
Past  sunlight  and  dew. 

That  rarest,  alluringest. 
Ever  heart  knew. 

That  siren  of  sunrise. 
That  weaver  of  songs. 

Till  the  heart  of  man  hearkens 
And  gladdens  and  longs. 


THE    WAYFARER 

Till  o'er  the  blue  distance. 

As  opens  the  rose, 
The  yearning  impulsion 

Of  all  his  life  goes. 

And  many  a  dragon 

Chimera  so  grim, 
Down  the  dream  of  the  morning 

Is  vanquished  by  him. 

Yea,  sing  to  him,  call  him  through 

Heartache  in  vain; 
But  the  gladdest  day  wakened 

To  glory,  must  wane. 

And  the  noonday  he  longed  for 
To  fierce  light  will  burn. 

And  the  battles  he  wages 
Grow  bitter  and  stern. 

And  the  surge  of  life  sink 

To  the  moan  of  a  bar, 
And  the  hopes  of  the  morning 

Grow  hollow  and  far; 

And  the  road  that  he  follows, 

Less  luring  and  true. 
Till  he  longs  for  a  whiff 

Of  the  morning  he  knew. 

For  he  hears  thy  far  singing. 

That  lures  not  in  vain. 
Till  he  comes  to  thy  beauty 

Of  morning  again. 


15 


228  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  the  roads  of  returning 
Are  never  the  same 

As  the  sweet  dewy  meadows 
Of  morning  we  came. 

But  the  song  of  alluring 

Is  ever  as  true. 
To  lead  the  heart  back 

To  the  beauty  it  knew. 

And  vain  the  mad  magic 
Where  life's  glories  burn, 

For  the  heart  of  the  yearner 
Who  longs  to  return. 

For  he  hears  that  voice  calling. 
Voiced  never  in  vain. 

To  world-heart  aweary 
For  all  dreamings  fain. 

And  he  hears  the  low  grasses 
The  green  tents  of  sod. 

From  rooftrees  of  slumber 
As  voices  of  God. 

« 

And  the  spinning  and  turning. 
Of  madness  amain. 

Fade  out  from  his  dreaming 
As  night  from  the  pane ; 

When  the  rosy-red  splendor 
In  dew-dreams  impearled. 

From  ashes  of  slumber, 
Lifts  over  the  world. 


THE    WAYFARER  229 

Yea,  back  to  those  echoes 

Of  bugles  that  blew, 
Heart-weary,  life-broken. 

He  wanders  to  you ; 

Yea,  back  to  his  truest. 

Those  far  broken  gleams 
Of  that  rosy-red,  morning-lit 

House  of  his  dreams. 

Where  all  hours  were  splendid. 

And  all  hearts  held  true, 
In  those  glory-lit  visions 

Of  beauty  and  you. 

Yea,  call  to  him,  cry  to  him. 

Mother  of  all; 
You  lit  his  youth's  torches. 

You  saw  their  flames  fall. 

You  loved  him,  upheld  him. 

This  child  of  your  breast ; 
And  now  give  him  surcease 

In  dreamings  and  rest. 

Your  note  was  the  one  note 

He  heard  in  the  fray. 
That  bore  him  far  out 

In  the  heat  of  the  day; 

Your  call  is  the  one  call 

That  beckons  him  home. 
When  day-fires  darken 

By  forest  and  foam. 


230  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

When  o'er  all  the  heartache, 

The  visions  untnie. 
Love  draws  her  dim  curtains 

Of  duskfire  and  dew. 

"While  the  bells  ring  for  slumber 

As  out  of  the  deep, 
Come  pleading  those  velvet-winged 

Spirits  of  sleep. 

And  there  at  your  doorways 
Of  slumber  he  stands. 

Like  him  of  old  Horeb, 
And  sees  his  hearfs  lands; 

While  under  the  white  awe 
Of  planets  that  swim, 

Knows  dawning  and  even 
As  one  world  to  him. 


Peniel 

In  a  place  of  the  mountains  of  Edom, 
And  a  waste  of  the  midnight  shore. 

When  the  evil  winds  of  the  desolate  hills 
Beat  with  an  iron  roar; 

With  the  pitiless  black  of  the  desert  behind. 
And  the  wrath  of  a  brother  before : — 

In  a  place  of  the  ancient  mountains, 
And  the  time  of  the  midnight  dead. 

Where  the  great  wide  skies  of  his  father's  land 
Loomed  vastly  overhead; 

Jacob,  the  son  of  the  ancient  of  days. 
Stood  out  alone  with  his  dread. 


PENIEL  231 

And  there  in  that  place  of  darkness, 
When  the  murk  of  the  night  grew  dim. 

Under  the  wide  rooftree  of  the  world 
An  unknown  stood  with  him, — 

Whether  a  devil  or  angel  of  God, — 
With  presence  hidden  and  grim. 

And  spake,  "  Thou  son  of  Isaac, 
On  mountain  and  stream  and  tree. 

And  this  wide  ruined  world  of  night. 
Take  thy  last  look  with  me : 

For  out  of  the  darkness  have  I  come. 
To  die,  or  conquer  thee." 

Then  Jacob  made  stem  answer, 

"  Until  thy  face  I  see. 
Though  I  strive  with  life  or  wrestle  with 
death. 

Yet  will  I  strive  with  thee: 
For  better  it  were  to  die  this  hour 

Than  from  my  fate  to  flee. 

**  Yea,  speak  thy  name  or  show  thy  face. 
Else  shall  I  conquer  thy  will." 
But  the  other  closed  with  an  iron  shock. 

Till  it  seemed  the  stars  so  still, 
With  the  lonely  night,  in  a  wheeling  mist. 
Went  round  by  river  and  hill. 

And  Jacob  strove  as  the  dying  strive. 

In  the  woe  of  that  awful  place. 
Yea,  he  fought  with  the  desperate  soul  of  one 

Who  fights  in  evil  case: 
And  he  called  aloud  in  the  pauses  dread, 

^*  0  give  me  sight  of  thy^  face,  (, 


POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

"  Yea,  speak  thy  name,  what  art  thou,  spirit, 
Or  man,  or  devil,  or  God  ? 
Yea,  speak  thy  name !"    But  no  voice  came. 

From  heaven  or  deep  or  sod: 
And  the  spirit  of  Jacob  clave  to  his  flesh 
As  the  dews  in  a  dried-up  clod. 

Then  they  rocked  and  swayed  as  Autumn 
storms 

Do  rock  the  centuried  trees: 
Yea,  swayed  and  rocked :  that  other  strove^ 

And  drave  him  to  his  knees : 
And  Jacob  felt  the  wide  world's  gleam 

And  the  roar  of  unknown  seas. 

Like  to  a  mighty  storm,  it  seemed. 

There  thundered  in  his  ears : 
And  a  mighty  rushing  water  teemed. 

Like  brooks  of  human  tears : 
And  opened  the  channels  of  his  spent  heart. 

And  washed  away  his  fears. 

And  he  rose  with  the  last  despairing  strength 

Of  life's  tenacity. 
And  he  swore  by  the  blood  of  man  in  him, 

And  God's  eternity, 
*'  'Tis  my  life,  my  very  soul  he  wants ; 

That  he  shall  not  have  of  me." 

Then  his  heart  grew  strong  and  he  felt  the 
earth 

Grow  iron  beneath  his  feet. 
And  he  drank  the  balmy  airs  of  night 

Like  rose-blooms  rare  and  sweet: 
And  his  soul  rose  up  as  a  welling  brook. 

His  life  or  death  to  meet. 


PENIEL  233 

And  he  spake  to  that  unknown  enemy  there, — 

"  By  yon  white  stars  I  vow. 
That  be  thou  devil  or  angel  or  man. 

Thou  canst  not  conquer  me  now : 
For  I  feel  new  lease  of  life  and  strength 

In  this  sweat  that  beads  my  brow/' 

They  locked  once  more;  the  stars,  it  seemed. 

Went  round  in  dances  dim. 
Where  the  great  white  watchers  over  each  hill. 

With  the  black  night,  seemed  to  swim; 
But  Jacob  knew  his  enemy  now 

Could  nevermore  conquer  him. 

Yea,  still  with  grip  of  death  they  strove. 

In  iron  might,  imtil, 
Planet  by  planet,  the  great  stars  dropped 

Down  over  the  westward  hill : 
And  Jacob  stood  like  one  who  stands 

In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  will. 

Then  at  that  late,  last  midnight  hour. 

When  the  little  birds  rejoice, 
And  out  of  the  lands  of  sleep  life  looms 

With  the  rustle  of  day's  annoys. 
That  other  spake  as  one  who  speaks 

With  a  sad  despairing  voice. 

And  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  met  my  fate. 

Loosen,  and  let  me  go : 
For  I  have  striven  with  thee  in  vain. 

Till  my  heart  is  water  and  woe." 
"  Nay,  nay,"  cried  Jacob,  "  we  strive,  we  twain, 

Till  the  mists  of  dawning  blow." 


234  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Then  spake  that  other,  "  I  hate  thee  not, 

My  spirit  is  spent,  alas. 
Thou  art  a  very  lion  of  men. 

Release,  and  let  me  pass; 
For  thou  h^st  my  heart  and  sinews  ground 

As  ocean  grinds  his  grass/' 

Then  answered  Jacob,  "  N'ay,  nay,  thou  L'ar, 

This  is  the  lock  of  death ; 
For  thee  or  me  it  must  be  thus. 

The  will  of  my  being  saith, 
Thou  man  or  devil,  I  hold  thee  here 

Unto  thy  latest  breath. 

**  For  I  do  feel  in  thee  I  hold 

My  life's  supremest  hour : 
I  would  as  lief  let  all  life  slip 

As  thee  from  out  my  power. 
Until  I  gaze  on  thy  hid  face. 

And  read  my  spirifs  dower. 

"  Yea,  show  thy  face  or  who  thou  art. 

Or  man  or  angel  or  fiend, 
I  rend  thy  being  fold  from  fold, 

And  scatter  thee  to  the  wind." 
Then  they  twain  rocked  as  passions  rocic, 

When  madness  wrecks  the  mind. 

For  each  now  knew  this  was  the  end. 

And  one  of  them  must  die. 
Then  Jacob  heaved  a  mighty  breath, 

With  a  last  great  sobbing  cry. 
And  gripped  that  other  in  a  grip 

Like  the  grip  of  those  who  die. 


PENIEL  235 

For  he  felt  once  more  his  spirit  faint. 
And  his  strong  knees  quake  beneath. 

And  it  seemed  the  mountains  Earned  all  red 
At  the  coming  of  his  breath; 

And  he  prayed  if  he  were  conquered  now 
That  this  might  be  his  death. 

The  tight  grip  eased,  the  huge  form  slipped 

Back  earthward  with  a  moan. 
And  Jacob  stood  there  'neath  the  dawn, 

Like  one  new-changed  to  stone; 
For  in  the  face  of  the  prone  man  there 

He  read  his  very  own. 

Not  as  man  sees  who  reads  his  fellows 

In  the  dim  crowds  that  pass ; 
Nor  as  a  soul  may  know  himself. 

Who  looks  within  a  glass; 
But  as  God  sees,  who  kneads  the  clay. 

And  parts  it  from  the  mass. 

And  over  his  head  the  great  day  rose 

And  gloried  leaf  and  wing, 
And  the  little  boughs  began  to  tremble. 

And  the  little  birds  to  sing; 
But  on  his  face  there  shone  a  strength 

Like  the  power  of  a  new-crowned  king. 


236  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Cain 

My  hand  is  red  with  brother  blood. 
My  heart  is  bleak  with  woe, 

'Mid  dark  despairs  a  bitter  brood, 
Forth,  forth  alone  I  go. 

By  mists  of  dread  fierce  hate  I  grope 
Forth  over  a  wide,  wide  sea; 

For  out  from  love  and  light  and  hope 
My  sin  hath  driven  me. 

Dread,  dread  the  portals  that  I  face, 
The  foes  that  front  me  there. 

And  evermore  back,  back  I  trace 
Old  roads  of  death's  despair. 

And  by  the  crowded  demon  mart. 

Or  by  the  haunted  sea, 
Manacled,  close  heart  to  heart, 

My  brute  sin  stalks  with  me. 

And  often  in  my  middle  sleep 

I  dream  I  see  its  face, 
As  one  looks  down  into  a  deep 

And  sees  an  evil  place 

Of  hideous  holes,  where  slimy  things 
Of  horror  and  strange  woe 

Bound,  round  forever  in  weird  rings 
Of  endless  motion  go. 

And  ever  round  me  closes  in 
A  wall  both  black  and  dread. 


CAIN  207 

It  is  my  sin,  mine  evil  sin 
That  binds  me  to  the  dead. 

Nor  am  I  desolate  where  I  track 

The  deserts  bleak  and  wide; 
For  the  great  God,  a  shadow  black, 

Moves  ever  by  my  side. 

I  feel  Him  'mid  the  morning  dews. 

And  at  the  dread  midnight; 
For  He  alone  will  never  lose 

The  murderer  from  His  sight. 

Nor  brings  He  peace.    I  could  not  steal 

A  sense  of  happiness ; 
But  some  grim  law  that  makes  me  feel 

The  manacles'  caress. 

A  sense  of  One  who  ever  goes 

And  bears  my  load  with  me, 
Down  roads  of  grim  and  hideous  woes 

And  horrid  agony. 

Down,  down,  where  things  of  doom  and  dree 

And  demon  fancies  ride; 
And  ever,  ever  as  I  flee. 

That  shadow  by  my  side. 

And  dread,  more  dread  than  all,  hath  been 

That  sense  of  woe  in  me. 
To  know  His  greatness,  and  my  sin 

That  parts  us  like  a  sea ; 

As  down  weird  worlds  of  bale  and  blight 

My  tortured  way  I  trace. 
And  ever  before  me  blinded  night 

That  smites  the  murderer's  face. 


238  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Lazarus 

0  Father  Abram,  I  can  never  rest 

Here  in  thy  bosqm  in  the  whitest  heaven. 
Where  love  blooms  on  through  days  without  an 

even; 
For  up  through  all  the  paradises  seven. 
There  comes  a  cry  from  some  fierce,  anguished 
breast. 

A  cry  that  comes  from  out  of  hell's  dark  night, 

A  piercing  cry  of  one  in  agony. 

That  reaches  me  here  in  heaven  white  and  high; 

A  call  of  anguish  that  doth  never  die. 
Like  dream-waked  infant  wailing  for  the  light. 

0  Father  Abram,  heaven  is  love  and  peace. 
And  God  is  good ;  eternity  is  rest. 
Sweet  would  it  be  to  lie  upon  thy  breast 
And  know  no  thought  but  loving  to  be  blest, 

Save  for  that  cry  that  nevermore  will  cease. 

It  comes  to  me  above  the  angel-lyres. 
The  chanting  praises  of  the  cherubim; 
It  comes  between  my  upward  gaze  and  Him, 
All-blessed  Christ.    A  voice  from  the  vague  dim, 
"  0  Lazarus,  come  and  ease  me  of  these  fires! 

"  0  Lazarus,  I  have  called  thee  all  these  years. 
It  is  so  long  for  me  to  reach  to  thee. 
Across  the  ages  of  this  mighty  sea, 
That  loometh  dark,  dense,  lilce  eternity, 
Which  I  have  bridged  by  anguished  prayers  and 
tears. 


LAZARUS  239 

Which  I  have  bridged  by  hnowledge  of  God's  love. 
That  even  penetrates  this  anguished  glare; 
A  gleaming  ray,  a  tremulous  star-built  stair, 
A  road  by  which  love-hungered  souls  may  fare 

Past  hate  and  doubt,  to  heaven  and  God  above." 

So  calleth  it  ever  upward  unto  me. 

It  creepeth  in  through  heaven's  golden  doors. 
It  echoes  all  along  the  sapphire  floors. 
Like  smoke  of  sacrifice,  it  soars  and  soars. 

It  fills  the  vastness  of  eternity. 

Until  my  sense  of  love  is  waned  and  dimmed. 
The  music-rounded  spheres  do  clash  and  Jar, 
No  more  those  spirit-calls  from  star  to  star. 
The  harmonies  that  float  and  melt  afar, 

The  belts  of  light  by  which  all  heaven  is  rimmed. 

No  more  I  hear  the  beat  of  heavenly  wings. 
The  seraph  chanting  in  my  rest-tuned  ear; 
I  only  know  a  cry,  a  prayer,  a  tear. 
That  rises  from  the  depths  up  to  me  here; 

A  soul  that  to  me  suppliant  leans  and  clings. 

0  Father  Abram,  thou  must  bid  me  go 
Into  the  spaces  of  the  deep  abyss; 

Where  far  from  us  and  our  God-given  bliss. 
Do  dwell  those  souls  that  have  done  Christ  amiss; 
For  through  my  rest  I  hear  that  upward  woe. 

1  hear  it  crying  through  the  heavenly  night. 
When  curved,  himg  in  space,  the  million  moons 
Lean  planet-ward,  and  infinite  space  attunes 
Itself  to  silence,  as  from  drear  grey  dunes 

A  cry  is  heard  along  the  shuddering  light. 


240  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Of  wild  dusk-bird,  a  sad,  heart-curdling  cry. 

So  comes  to  me  that  call  from  out  hell's  coasts; 
I  see  an  infinite  shore  with  gaping  ghosts ; 
This  is  no  heaven,  with  all  its  shining  hosts; 

This  is  no  heaven  until  that  hell  doth  die. 

So  spake  the  soul  of  Lazarus,  and  from  thence, 
Like  new-fledged  bird  from  its  sun-jeweled  nest. 
Drunk  with  the  music  of  the  young  year's  quest. 
He  sank  out  into  heaven's  gloried  breast, 

Spaceward  turned,  toward  darkness  dim,  immense. 

Hellward  he  moved  like  a  radiant  star  shot  out 
From  heaven's  blue  with  rain  of  gold  at  even, 
When  Orion's  train  and  that  mysterious  seven 
Move  on  in  mystic  range  from  heaven  to  heaven. 

Hellward  he  sanJc,  followed  by  radiant  rout. 

The  liquid  floor  of  heaven  bore  him  up 
With  unseen  arms,  as  in  his  feathery  flight 
He  floated  down  toward  the  infinite  night; 
But  each  way  downward,  on  the  left  and  right. 

He  saw  each  moon  of  heaven  like  a  cup 

Of  liquid,  misty  fire  that  shone  afar 

From  sentinel  towers  of  heaven's  battlements; 
But  onward,  winged  by  love's  desire  intense, 
And  sank,  space-swallowed,  into  the  immense. 

While  with  him  ever  widened  heaven's  bar. 

'Tis  ages  now  long-gone  since  he  went  out, 

Christ-urged,  love-driven,  across  the  jasper  walls. 
But  hellward  still  he  ever  floats  and  falls. 
And  ever  nearer  come  those  anguished  calls; 

And  far  behind  he  hears  a  glorious  shout. 


AHMET  241 

Ahmet 

This  poem  is  fonnded  on  an  old  legend  of  North  Africa,  related 
by  the  late  R.  6.  Haliburton,  the  noted  ethnologist.  According  to 
tradition  the  ancient  races  of  North  Africa  believed  the  constellation 
of  the  Pleiades  to  be  the  souls  of  a  chieftain  and  six  warriors,  slain  in 
battle,  who  are  shut  out  from  heaven  and  doomed  to  wander  forever 
through  space  in  search  of  the  soul  of  the  eighth  warrior,  which  is 
identified  with  the  lost  Pleiad. 

And  still  the  mighty  river  drifted  on. 
Under  the  shadowed  night  and  moving  mists, 
And  towered  the  iron  mountains,  dark  and  stem. 
Under  the  arctic  whiteness  of  the  north. 
And  out  of  the  far  horizon's  sullen  edge 
The  night-winds  stirred  amid  the  lonely  dead. 
Stark,  moveless,  gazing  upward  at  the  skies. 
Where  silent  and  cold  the  unanswering  stars 
looked  down. 

And  Ahmet  raised  him  from  the  battle-field. 
Where  stunned  he  lay,  beneath  a  Tartar  horse 
Huge,  stiff  and  dead,  transfixed  by  a  spear; 
And  left  the  awful  plateau  of  the  dead. 
And  stood  upon  the  high-raised  river  bank, 
Beneath  the  white  stars  of  the  wintry  heaven, 
And  moved  himself,  and  beat  the  life-blood  back 
Into  the  death-like  torpor  of  his  veins. 
And  looked  abroad,  where  all  the  night  lay  still 
And  dim  with  murk  far  over  that  lone  waste. 
Leagues  to  the  north,  under  the  mighty  Bear, 
Folded  in  fog,  a  fleeting  silver  dream. 
The  river  moved  and  sang  into  the  dark, 
Under  the  frosty  splendor  of  the  stars. 

And  Ahmet  stood  and  gazed  into  the  night. 
And  lifted  his  face  up  to  those  watchful  lights 


242  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

That  looked  from  out  their  lonely  homes  on 

him; 
And  saw  the  Pleiades,  a  tangled  mist 
Of  moveless  jewels  in  the  sky's  blue  deep, 
Or  pale  grape-cluster  in  some  great  god's  hand. 

And  felt  the  old  religion  of  his  race, — 

A  nomad  people  on  the  northern  steppes. 

Who  wandered  from  place  to  place  tracking  their 

gods — 
The  stem,  white  wanderers  of  the  trackless 

heaven — 
Beat  in  the  stirring  pulses  of  his  blood. 
And  Ahmet  prayed  in  his  heart's  agony. 
Unto  the  fathers  of  his  race,  the  gods, 
For  his  own  people  in  their  distant  home, 
And  for  himself  on  this  lone,  desolate  waste. 
And  the  great  dead,  who  battling  through  that 

day. 
Went  to  the  gods  from  off  their  foemen's  spears. 
Then  rang  his  song  of  triumph  to  the  night. 
Of  those  his  blade  loosed  to  the  land  of  death. 
Treading  the  carnage  on  that  awful  field; 
Then  ceased,  nor  ever  echo  answered  there, 
Save  ^e  far  moaning  of  some  mountain  beast 
Haunting  the  jungle  by  some  night-ward  shore. 
And  never  a  sound  came  over  that  lone  waste. 
Where  the  far  mountains  raised  their  iron  heads, 
And  the  great  river  sang  its  sleep  below. 
Then  strode  he  past  the  pallor  of  the  night. 
Like  some  huge  shadow  'mid  the  shadows  there, 
Unto  the  unwaked  slumber  of  that  plain ; 
And  moved  amid  the  hushed  and  sombre  dead. 
Awful  and  stern  in  their  last,  silent  sleep. 
With  clotted  blood  congealed  on  shield  and  helm. 
And  stony  faces  staring  at  the  stars. 


AHMET  243 

Great  blade  or  spear  still  clasped  in  each  dead 

hand; 
And  came  to  where  the  young  boy-chieftain  lay. 
The  last  grim  prince  of  his  rude  southern  race. 
With  whom  he  rode  to  battle  yester  morn, 
Now  stark  and  motionless  beneath  the  stars, 
With  his  life's  foeman,  silent,  face  to  face! 

And  Ahmet  lifted  up  his  sombre  face 
To  the  white  heaven  and  the  stars,  his  gods, 
And  moaned,  "  0  awful  rulers  of  my  race. 
Looking  from  out  the  mighty  deeps  on  me. 
Ye  who  on  radiant  thrones  of  splendid  light. 
From  out  your  far  halls  gaze  upon  this  earth ; 
And  know,  perchance,  her  motions  through  the 

deep. 
Her  changes  and  her  seasons,  and  perchance 
The  strange,  weird  agony  and  joy  of  man, 
Who  rises  from  her  breast,  as  some  dim  mist. 
Then  sinks  forever  on  her  meres  again : 
Know  ye  that  unto  me  this  night  is  given 
The  woeful  part  to  answer  for  the  dead 
Unto  you  gods,  who  rule  the  afterworld. 
My  part  it  is  to  bury  this  great  King, 
The  mighty  son  of  a  once  mighty  race. 
Now  'tis  for  me  to  hollow  his  last  bed. 
And  lay  the  holy  earth  upon  his  face. 
His  breast  and  limbs,  and  shut  him  from  the 

light, 
So  that  ye  gods,  in  looking  from  your  thrones. 
May  see  no  part  of  what  is  shape  of  him, 
And  curse  him,  banished  from  your  halls  forever. 

"  Yea,  more ;  in  keeping  with  that  ancient  law. 
Stem  and  relentless,  given  to  my  race, 
And  handed  down  the  generations  long, 
16 


244  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  kept  by  us  with  solemn  reverence, 
I  must  this  night  find  seven  of  our  kin, 
Who  went  out  here  upon  this  battle-field, 
And  lay  their  shapes  of  them  with  decent  care, 
Stark,  side  by  side,  in  this  young  prince's  grave. 
Ere  the  white  god  of  dawning  pales  yon  east; 
Or  else  this  prince,  beloved,  noble,  brave. 
Who  hath  gone  out  in  his  old  foe's  embrace. 
Must  ever,  doomed,  wander  the  trackless  way. 
Shut  out  from  all  the  homes  of  your  white 

splendor 
And  searching  forever, — like  some  lonesome  wind 
Beating  about  the  hollow  halls  of  night." 

Then  wresting  a  blade  from  some  grim  foeman's 

hand. 
Strode  once  more  outward  to  the  river's  bank, 
Where  the  great  waters  moved  beneath  the  mist; 
And  never  a  night-bird  called  from  bank  to  bank, 
But  the  cold  river  mists  encircled  him. 
And  there  he  toiled  with  quick,  despairing  will. 
And  made  an  opening  in  the  wind-swept  sands, 
Eed,  desert-blown,  adown  the  centuries. 
The  solemn  night-winds  crept  about  his  toil. 
Loosening  the  mists  along  the  lonesome  shores. 
And  now  a  slinking  jackal  wandered  past, 
Then  stole  to  some  far  shadow  of  the  field 
To  his  weird  feast  upon  the  unburied  dead. 

Then  with  stern  face,  across  the  lonely  field, 
Like  some  great  hero  of  the  olden  days 
Working  by  night  some  splendid  titan  deed. 
Or,  as  the  shadow  of  some  olden  god. 
Paying  by  night  the  last,  sad,  hallowed  rites. 
Over  the  form  of  some  great  chieftain  slain; 


AHMET  245 

With  reverent  duty  to  the  spirit  fled. 

Bare  he  the  dead  young  king  with  awful  toil 

Unto  the  grave  that  he  had  hollowed  there. 

With  six  men  more,  and  laid  them  in  that  grave, 

With  faces  fixed,  limbs  rigidly  composed. 

And  mute,  dull  eyes,  dumb,  staring  at  the  stars. 

Then  went  again  with  agonizing  tread. 

As  a  young  lioness  might  hunt  her  cub 

In  some  great  slaughter  of  huge  jungle  beasts. 

And  circle  dumb,  yet  never  find  him  there ; 

So  he  in  vain,  amid  the  silent  dead, 

Searching  the  heaps,  went  through  the  haunted 

dark. 
Praying  the  gods  in  his  great,  dread  despair. 
Then,  sorrowing  back,  came  to  the  high-raised 

bank. 
And  saw  the  lonely  river  and  the  night. 
The  iron  mountains,  and  those  dead  men  there  I 

And  now  it  seemed  to  Ahmet,  standing  by, 
That  out  of  the  sombre  shadow  of  that  pit 
Those  silent  faces  pleaded  with  him  there. 
And  well  he  knew  that  somewhere  off  afar 
In  outer  space,  this  side  Valhalla's  gates. 
These  seven  souls  awaited  heaven's  doom. 
With  that  a  bitter  sorrow  filled  his  soul 
For  those,  his  warrior-comrades  lying  dead. 
And  that  young  prince  whom  he  had  loved  so 

well: 
That  they  should  never  see  Valhalla's  doors 
Wide-open  to  the  welcome  din  within, 
Of  mighty  warriors  at  eternal  feasts, 
And  glorious  songs  of  titan  battle-joy. 
Of  lofty  heroes,  told  unto  the  gods. 
'  Nor  could  I  enter  there  myself/*  he  dreamed, 


246  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

"  And  know  their  joy,  if  that  I  die  not  here. 
And  did  I  now  wend  backward  to  my  home. 
And  live  mine  after  days  in  earthly  peace, 
And  turn  mine  aged  face  upward  by  my  hearth. 
Surrounded  by  my  loved,  in  days  to  come : 
Could  I  a  warrior,  to  the  Warrior-gods 
Go  in,  nor  answer  for  those  dead  ones  there, 
And  meet  their  hero  faces  without  shame, 
And  know  these  poor  ones  wandering  in  the  dark. 
Despairing  ever  through  the  endless  years/* 

Whereat  he  rose,  and  looked  up  to  the  stars. 
And  spake :  "  0  Mighty  Ones,  it  is  well  seen 
That  I  must  know  mine  olden  home  no  more. 
But  I  must  end  me  here  on  this  dread  plain. 
Loosening  my  soul,  even  that  these  poor  men 
May  know  the  golden  glory  of  the  gods ; 
Ketuming  never  to  the  ones  I  love/' 
Whereat  a  great  sob  rent  his  anguished  frame. 
And  all  his  face,  across  the  shadowed  light. 
Showed  with  a  bitter  woe,  for  he  was  young. 
Scarce  yet  a  man,  and  this  his  first  of  battles, 
Where  he  had  come  in  his  fierce  warrior- joy. 
For  that  glad  love  wherewith  he  loved  the  king. 
And  far  at  home  his  aged  father  sat. 
And  his  old  mother,  mourning  for  their  son; 
And  in  the  dark  he  saw  his  betrothed's  eyes 
Soften  to  tears  at  memory  of  his  name. 
Whereat  deep  anguish  smote  his  strong  young 

breast. 
And  looking  to  the  sky,  cried  out :  "  0  Gods ! 
Is  there  no  way  ?    A  sign !  great  Gods,  a  sign  I" 
Whereat  a  splendid  meteor  blazed  and  fell 
Across  the  silent  wonder  of  the  night, 
Girding  the  horizon  to  the  iron  hills. 


AHMET  2*7 

And  then  a  thrill  of  greatness  shook  him  there. 
For  now  he  knew  for  certain  he  must  die. 
And  looking  on  the  dead  face  of  the  prince. 
He  spake :  "  0  noble  soul  and  brave  and  true ! 
Great  heart  that  never  fled  from  human  face. 
Nor  yet  would  go  back  from  some  wondrous 

doom. 
Such  as  is  laid  on  thy  loved  comrade  here ! 
That  such  dread  woes  are  fallen  from  the  gods, 
'Tis  not  for  souls  like  mine  to  question  why. 
But  I  will  follow  whithersoe'er  thou  goest. 
Thunder  thy  shadow-steed  o'er  trackless  heaven. 
Or  to  the  brink  of  floorless  night  and  hell. 
Yet  comrade,  friend,  forgive  thine  Ahmet  here. 
If  he  finds  woman's  grief  for  what  he  leaves. 
Like  thee,  I  never  more  will  see  my  home, 
My  boyhood's  country  in  its  golden  prime: — 
The  happy  hearths  and  plains  we  loved  of  yore. 
No  more  must  see  the  parents  of  my  youth, 
Nor  guard  their  age,  nor  close  their  sightless 

eyes, 
Nor  know  the  joys  of  husband  or  of  sire, 
Of  children's  prattle,  glad  about  the  knees. 
The  loved  home  comforts,  and  the  wintry  fire. 
And  all  the  glories  of  this  splendid  world. 
All  these  must  I  forego,  nor  know  old  age. 
And  the  last  peace  at  golden  life's  decline, 
Because  of  some  weird  doom  that  hath  been  mine. 
Given  of  old,  from  out  the  mighty  gods." 
Then  ceased,  and,  with  soft  hands  of  loving  care. 
Took  earth  and  laid  it  on  the  dead  young  king : — 
Upon  his  face  and  his  still,  rigid  limbs ; 
And  said :  "  I  now  commend  thee  to  the  gods.'* 
Likewise,  in  turn,  he  did  unto  the  others. 
As  was  the  ancient  custom  of  his  race. 


248  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Then  Ahmet  rose  and  stood  in  his  own  grave, 
And  bearing  in  his  hand  the  naked  blade, 
Spake :  "  Now  am  I  resolved  with  conquering 

hand 
To  cleave  this  murky  curtain  of  my  flesh, 
And  hew  a  doorway  past  these  walls  of  life 
Unto  the  outer  splendor  of  the  gods. 
And  ye,  white  watchers  of  the  wheeling  world, 
0  ancient  makers  of  my  doom,  Behold ! 
0  lonesome  desert,  wintry  to  the  south, 

0  luminous  stream  and  desolate  iron  hills ; 
Your  glory  will  fall  on  Ahmefs  eye  no  more ! 
And  thou,  my  love,  whose  holy  love  was  mine. 
Snatched  by  the  fates  from  my  too  passionate 

grasp, 
Thou  wilt  know  sorrow  when  thine  Ahmet's  gone. 
Yea,  thou  wilt  sit  across  the  wintry  years. 
Turning  thy  wheel  by  morn  or  sunset  door. 
Brooding  upon  a  face  that  comes  no  more! 
And  ye  my  parents !    One  will  hobbling  go 
Past  the  familiar  haunts  and  quarrel  with  death 
Who  claimed  the  wrong  one  first.    The  other,  she. 
Will  croon,  with  grief-filled  face,  the  fire  beside. 
Peopling  in  vain  the  home  with  olden  dreams. 
And  all  the  joyous  sounds  that  should  have  been. 
Farewell,  0  glorious  stars,  and  sun  and  moon, 
Now  I  go  out  upon  this  journey  dread, 

1  hear  my  charger,  slain  this  early  morn, 
Neighing  beyond  the  gates  of  outer  dark, 
Watching  for  the  master  who  should  come.** 
Then  lifting  up  his  strong  face  to  the  skies. 
Took  one  last  look  on  all  the  wheeling  worlds, 
And  with  glad  challenge  to  the  foeman  dark. 
Struck  home  the  thirsting  blade  to  his  proud 

heart. 
And  with  one  mighty  shout  there  backward  fell  I 


THE  ELF-LOVER  249 

Then  there  was  heard  a  thunder  of  shadowy 

hoofs 
That  ont  of  the  deep  wells  of  the  night  swept 

past; 
And  as  they  went  a  riderless  steed  there  neighed 
Joyously,  to  him  who  leaped  to  saddle, 
With  splendid  mien  of  conqueror  just  returned 
From  some  far  titan  battle  of  the  gods ; 
Then  all  swept  up  the  steep,  sheer  depths  of 

heaven. 
Thundering  up  the  glorious  slopes  of  blue, 
Striking  fire-hoofs  upon  the  flinty  air, 
Onward  to  the  ramparts  of  the  sMes, 
Where  some  day  through  long  ages  they  will 

scale. 
And  clang  the  golden  gates  and  enter  in. 

But  still  the  mighty  river  drifted  on 
Beyond  the  night  to  meet  the  coming  day; 
Beyond  the  iron  mountains  and  the  dark. 
And  out  of  the  wintry  radiance  of  the  stars 
There  grew  a  beauty  of  the  lonely  night, 
That  clothed  those  mighty  dead,  and  came  and 

fell. 
Like  on  some  peak  that  fronts  the  far-off  dawn. 
On  Ahmet^s  face,  a  silent  majesty. 


The  Elf-Lover 

It  was  a  haunted  youth;  he  spake 
Beneath  the  beechen  shade: 
"  An'  hast  thou  seen  my  love  go  past, 
A  simny,  winsome  maid? 


280  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

"  An'  hast  thou  seen  my  love  fare  past, 
Her  face  with  life  aflame? 
The  leaves  astir  her  footsteps  tell. 
The  soft  winds  blow  her  name. 

"  'Twas  when  the  autumn  days  were  still, — 
It  seemeth  but  an  hour, — 
I  met  her  on  the  gold  hillside 
When  elfin  loves  had  power. 

"  Her  voice  was  like  the  sound  of  brooks. 
Her  face  like  some  wild  bloom; 
And  in  the  beauty  of  her  look 
I  read  mine  ancient  doom. 

"  And  when  the  world  in  mist  died  out 
Down  toward  some  evening  land. 
Betwixt  the  glinting  golden-rod 
We  two  went  hand  in  hand. 

"  And  when  the  moon  a  golden  disk 
Above  the  night  hills  came, 
Down  in  a  world  of  midnight  haze 
I  kissed  her  lips  aflame. 

"  But  when  the  moon  was  hidden  low 
Behind  each  spectre  tree; 
She  loosed  from  my  sad  arms  and  bent 
A  startled  look  on  me. 

"  (While  wound  from  out  some  haunted  dusk 
A  far-ofiF  elfin  horn,) 
Like  one  on  sudden  woke  from  sleep, 
And  fled  into  the  morn. 

"  I  follow  her,  I  follow  her. 
But  never  more  may  see. 


THE    WERE- WOLVES  251 

The  crimson  dawn,  the  stars  of  night 
Know  what  she  is  to  me. 

"  I  ne'er  can  rest,  I  ne'er  can  stay, 
But  speed  from  place  to  place; 
For  all  my  heart  is  flamed  with  that 
Wild  glamor  of  her  face. 

"  I  know  her  soft  arms  in  my  dreams. 
All  wound  about  my  sleep; 
I  seem  to  hear  her  silvern  voice 
In  all  the  winds  that  creep. 

"  0  saw  you  not  her  come  this  way. 
By  boughs  in  waters  glassed? 
So  slight  her  form,  so  soft  her  step, 
You'd  think  a  moon  ray  passed. 

"  0  tell  me  did  you  see  her  wend  ? 
And  whence  to  hill  or  sea? 
The  ruddy  dawn,  the  stars  of  night. 
Know  what  she  is  to  me." 


The  Were- Wolves 

They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

From  the  even  to  the  dawn; 
And  their  tired  eyes  gleam  and  glisten 

Under  north  skies  white  and  wan. 
Each  panter  in  the  darkness 

Is  a  demon-haunted  soul. 
The  shadowy,  phantom  were- wolves, 

Wlio  circle  round  the  Pole. 


POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Their  tongues  are  crimson  flaming. 

Their  haunted  blue  eyes  gleam, 
And  they  strain  them  to  the  utmost 

O'er  frozen  lake  and  stream; 
Their  crjr  one  note  of  agony. 

That  is  neither  yelp  nor  barlv-, 
These  panters  of  the  northern  waste. 

Who  hound  them  to  the  dark. 

You  may  hear  their  hurried  breathing, 

You  may  see  their  fleeting  forms. 
At  the  pallid  polar  midnight, 

When  the  north  is  gathering  storms; 
When  the  arctic  frosts  are  flaming. 

And  the  ice-field  thunders  roll ; 
These  demon-haunted  were-wolves. 

Who  circle  round  the  Pole. 

They  hasten,  still  they  hasten. 

Across  the  northern  night. 
Filled  with  a  frighted  madness, 

A  horror  of  the  light ; 
Forever  and  forever, 

Like  leaves  before  the  wind, 
They  leave  the  wan,  white  gleaming 

Of  the  dawning  far  behind. 

Their  only  peace  is  darkness. 

Their  rest  to  hasten  on 
Into  the  heart  of  midnight, 

Forever  from  the  dawn. 
Across  far  phantom  ice-floes 

The  eye  of  night  may  mark 
These  horror-haunted  were-wolves 

AVho  hound  them  to  the  dark. 


THE    WERE-WOLVES  253 

All  through  this  hideous  journey 

They  are  the  souls  of  men 
Who  in  the  far  dark-ages 

Made  Europe  one  black  fen. 
They  fled  from  courts  and  convents. 

And  bound  their  mortal  dust 
"With  demon,  wolfish  girdles 

Of  human  hate  and  lust. 

These,  who  could  have  been  godlike, 

Chose,  each  a  loathsome  beast. 
Amid  the  heart's  foul  graveyards. 

On  putrid  thoughts  to  feast; 
But  the  great  God  who  made  them 

Gave  each  a  human  soul. 
And  so  'mid  night  forever 

They  circle  round  the  Pole. 

A-praying  for  the  blackness, 

A-longing  for  the  night. 
For  each  is  doomed  forever 

By  a  horror  of  the  light; 
And  far  in  the  heart  of  midnight, 

Where  their  shadowy  flight  is  hurled. 
They  feel  with  pain  the  dawning 

That  creeps  in  round  the  world. 

Under  the  northern  midnight. 

The  white,  glint  ice  upon, 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

With  their  horror  of  the  dawn; 
Forever  and  forever, 

Into  the  night  away 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten 

Unto  the  judgment  day. 


854  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  Vengeance  of  Saki 

When  the  moon  is  red  in  the  heaven,  and  under  the 
night 

Is  heard  on  the  winds  the  thunder  of  shadowy  horses, 

Then  out  of  the  night  I  arise,  and  again  am  a  woman ; 

And  leap  to  the  back  of  an  ebon  steed  that  knows  me, 

And  hound  him  on  in  the  wake  of  hoofs  that  thunder. 

Of  smoking  nostrils,  and  gleaming  eyes,  and  foam- 
flecked 

Flanks  that  glow  and  flash  in  the  flow  of  the  moon- 
light; 

While  under  the  mirk  and  the  moon,  out  into  the 
blackness, 

Eound  the  world's  edge  with  an  eerie,  mad,  echoing 
laughter. 

Leaps  the  long  cry  of  the  hate  of  the  wild  snake-woman. 

Ha!  Ha!  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as  we 
thunder ! 

Ho!  Ho!  for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to  my 
laughter ! 

Ha!  Ha!  it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass  into 
silence ! 

As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever, 

Eides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman ! 

I  was  a  girl  of  the  South,  with  eyes  as  tender 
And  dreamy  and  soft  and  true  as  the  skies  of  my  people. 
But  I  was  a  slave  and  an  alien  captured  in  battle. 
And  brought  to  the   North  by  a  people  ruder  and 

stronger. 
Who  held  me  as  naught  but  a  toy,  to  be  played  with  and 

broken. 
Then  thrown  aside  like  a  bow  that  is  snapped  asunder. 


THE   VENGEANCE  OF  SAKI  255 

Lithe  and  supple  my  limbs  as  the  sinuous  serpent. 
And  quick  as  the  eye  and  the  tongue  of  the  serpent 

mine  anger 
That  flashed  out  the  fire  of  my  hate  on  the  scorn  of  my 

scorners- 
But  hate  soon  softened  to  love,  as  fire  into  sunlight, 
When  my  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  chieftain,  my  lord, 

and  my  master. 
Sweet  as  the   flowers   that   bloom   on  the   blossoming 

prairie. 
Gladder  than  voices  of  fountains  that  dance  in  the 

sunlight. 
Were  the  new  and  tremulous  fancies  that  dwelt  in  my 

bosom ; 
For  he  was  my  king  and  my  sun,  and  the  power  of  his 

glance 
To  me  as  at  springtime  the  returning  sun  to  the  land- 
scape. 
And  his  touch  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  that  set  my 

heart  throbbing. 

Sweet  were  the  days  of  the  summer  I  dwelt  in  his  tent. 
And  glad  and  loving  the  nights  that  I  lay  on  his  bosom. 
But  woe,   woe,  woe,  to  the   summer  that  fades   into 

autumn. 
And  woe  upon  woe  is  the  love  that  dwindles  and  dies, 
And  ere  my  hot  heart  was  abrim  with  its  summer  of 

loving 
I  knew  that  its  autumn  had  come,  that  his  love  was 

another's — 
A  blue-eyed  haughty  captive  they  brought  from  the 

East, 
Her  hair  like  moving  simlight  that  rippled  and  ran 
With  the  golden  flow  of  a  brook  from  her  brow  to  her 

girdle. 


256  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

He  saw  her,  he  looked  on  her  face,  and  I  was  for- 
gotten— 
Yea,  I  and  the  love  that  fed  on  my  soul  in  its  anguish. 

Ha!  Ha!  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as  we 

thunder ! 
Ho!  Ho!  for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to  my 

laughter ! 
Ha!  Ha!  it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass  into 

silence ! 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  darkness  forever. 
Rides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman! 

I  bowed  my  head  with  its  woe  to  him  in  my  anguish; 
I  veiled  my  face  in  my  hair  like  the  night  of  my  sorrow ; 
And  I  pled  with  him  there  by  the  love  that  was  true 

and  forgiving: 
Oh !  my  lord  and  my  love,  by  the  days  that  are  past  of 

our  loving. 
Oh!  slay  thy  poor  Saki,  but  send  her  not  forth  in  her 

anguish ! 
And  I  fell  to  the  earth  with  my  face,  like  the  moon  hid 

in  heaven, 
In  the  folds  of  my  hair.    But  he  sate  there  and  uttered 

no  answer; 
And  the  white  woman  sate  there,  and  scorned  at  the 

woe  of  my  sorrow. 
Then  I  bit  my  tongue  through  that  pled  for  the  pity 

ungiven. 
And  I  rose  with  my  hate  in  my  eyes,  like  the  lightning 

in  heaven 
That  leaps  red  to  kill,  with  a  hiss  like  the   snake  that 

they  called  me; 
And  I  looked  on  them  there,  and  I  cursed  them,  the 

man  and  the  woman — 


THE    VENGEANCE  OF  SAKI  257 

The  man  whose  lips  had  kissed  my  love  into  being, 
And  the  woman  whose  beauty  had  withered  that  love 

into  ashes — 
With  curses  so  dread  and  so  deep  that  he  rose  up  and 

smote  me. 
And  hounded  me  forth  like  a  dog  to  die  in  the  desert. 

Ha!  Ha!  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as  we 

thunder ! 
Ho!  Ho!  for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to  my 

laughter ! 
Ha!  Ha!  it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass  into 

silence ! 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever. 
Hides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman ! 

Then  wandered  I  forth  an  outcast  hounded  and  beaten ; 

Careless  whither  I  went  or  living  or  dying. 

With  that  load  of  despair  at  my  heartstrings  wearing  to 

madness. 
Long  and  loud  I  laughed  at  the  heaven  that  mocked  me 
With  its  beautiful  sounds  and  its  sights  and  the  joy  of 

its  being, 
For  I  longed  but  to  die  and  to  go  to  that  region  of 

darkness 
Where  I  might  shroud  me  and  curse  in  my  madness 

forever. 
Far,  oh,  far  I  fled  till  my  feet  were  wounded 
And  bruised  and  cut  by  the  ways  unkindly  and  cruel. 
Then  all  the  world  grew  red  and  the  sun  as  a  furnace. 
And  I  raved  till  I  knew  no  more  for  a  horrible  season. 
Then  I  arose,  and  stood  like  one  in  a  dream 
Who,  after  long  years  of  forgetting,  sudden  remembers 
The    dread    wild   cry   of    a    wrong   that   clamors    for 

righting. 


268  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Then  sending  a  curse  to  the  heart  of  the  night  sky,  I 

turned  me 
And  fled  like  the  wind  of  the  winter,  the  sound  of  whose 

footstep  is  vengeance. 
Late,  when  the  moon  had  lowered,  I  entered  his  village. 
And  threading  the  silent  streets  came  to  the  well-known 

tent-door. 
And  dragging  aside  the  skins  with   serpentine   motion 
Entered  now  as  a  thief  where  once  I  had  entered  as 

mistress. 
And  there  in  the  gleam  of  the  moon,  with  the  flame  of 

her  hair  on  his  hosom. 
Lay  the  woman  I  hated  as  hell  hates,  the  man  I  loved 
'  clasped  to  her  heart. 

Ha!  Ha!  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as  we 

thunder ! 
Ho!  Ho!  for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to  my 

laughter ! 
Ha!  Ha!  it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass  into 

silence ! 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever, 
Eides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake- woman ! 

If  hate  could  have  slain  they^d  have  shriveled  up  there 
in  the  moonlight; 

But  theirs  was  a  sin  too  deep  for  the  kiss  of  a  knife- 
blade. 

Long  did  I  stand  like  a  poisoned  wind  in  a  desert, 

Grey  and  sad  and  despairing,  and  nursing  my  hate; 

When  out  of  the  night,  like  one  voice  that  calls  to 
another, 

Came  the  far-off  neigh  of  a  horse,  and  a  mad  joy  leaped 
to  my  veins. 

And  a  thought  curled  into  my  heart  as  a  serpent  coils 
into  a  flower; 


THE    VENGEANCE  OF  SAKI  259 

And  I  turned  me,  and  left  them  there  in  their  foolish 
love  and  their  slumber 

That  my  hot  heart  hissed  was  their  last. 

Then  hurrying  out  of  the  door  that  flapped  in  the 
night-wind  I  fled, 

With  a  pent-up  hunger  of  hate  that  maddened  to  burst 
from  its  sluices. 

And  came  to  a  place  on  the  plain  far  up  and  out  from 
the  village. 

Where  tethered  in  rows  of  hurdles,  champing  and  rest- 
less and  neighing. 

Half  a  thousand  horses  were  herded  under  the  night. 

Ha!   Ha!   I  live  it  anew,   I   dream   it  again  in  my 

madness. 
I  see  that  moving  ocean  of  shimmering  flanks   in   the 

moonlight. 
I  snatch  a  brand  from  a  watchfire  that  smoulders  and 

dwindles ; 
I  creep  around  to  the  side  of  the  herd  remote  from  the 

village, 
I  cry  a  low  call,  that  is  answered  by  a  neigh  and  a 

whinny. 
Then  I  leap  to  the  back  of  an  ebon  stallion  that  knows 

me. 
'Tis  but  the  cut  of  a  thong,  a  cry  in  the  night, 
A  fiery  waving  brand  like  lightning  to  thunder, 
A  terrified  moaning  and  neighing,  a  heaving  of  necks 

and  of  haunches; 
A  bound,  a  rush,  a  crack  of  a  thong,  then  a  whirlwind 

of  hoofs ! 
Like  a  sweep  of  a  wave  on  a  beach  we  are  thundering 

onwards. 
Neck  and  neck  in  the  wake  of  my  hate,  that  ever  before 

us 
Clamors  from  heaven  to  hell  in  its  terrible  vengeance! 
17 


260  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

With  neck  outstretched  and  mad  eyes  agleam  in  the 

gloaming, 
I  see  on  ahead  the  sleeping  huts  in  the  moonlight. 

Ha!  Ha!  they  will  rest  well  under  the  sleep  that  we 

bring  them ! 
See,   see,   we   are  nearing  them   now;   the   first   wild 

thundering  hoof-beats 
Have    ridden    them    down,    'mid    the    shriekings    and 

groanings  of  anguish. 
Blotting  them  out  with  their  loves  and  their  hates  into 

blackness. 
Ha !  Ha !  ride,  ride,  my  beauties,  my  terrible  tramplers ! 
Pound,  pound  into  dust  the  mother,  the  child,  and  the 

husband ! 
Pound,  pound  to  the  pulse  of  my  hate  that  exults  in 

your  thunders ! 
Ha!  over  the  little  ones  nestled  to  suckle  the  bosom, 
Over  the  man  that  I  loved,  we  thunder,  we  thunder ! 
Over  the  woman  I  hate  with  the  flame  of  her  hair  on 

his  bosom; 
Trampling,  treading  them  down  out  into  silence  and 

blackness. 
Like  the  swirl  of  a  merciless  storm  we  sweep  on  to 

darkness  forever! 

And  now,  when  the  moon  is  in  heaven,  and  under  the 

night 
Is  heard  on  the  winds  the  thunder  of  shadowy  horses. 
Then  out  of  the  dark  I  arise,  and  again  am  a  woman; 
And  leap  to  the  back  of  an  ebon  steed  that  knows  me. 
And  hound  him  on  in  the  wake  of  hoofs  that  thunder; 
While  under  the  mirk  and  the  moon,   out  into  the 

blackness, 
Eound  the  world's  edge  with   an  eerie,  mad,   echoing 

laughter. 
Leaps  the  long  cry  of  the  hate  of  the  wild  snake-woman. 


THE  LAST  RIDE 


261 


Ha!  Ha!  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as  we 

thunder ! 
Ho!  Ho!  for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to  my 

laughter ! 
Ha!  Ha!  it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass  into 

silence ! 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever, 
Eides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman ! 


The  Last  Ride 


It  seems  his 
soul  had  lived 
that  moment 
before,  when 
he  should  come 
to  the  dread 
place. 


I  KNEW  of  it  ages  before. 

Yea,  it  seemed  that  the  years  knew  it  too; 

That  I  should  come  to  that  shore. 

Where  the  foam  and  the  wild  waters  flew — 

Where  the  winds  and  the  bleak  night 

blew ; — 
And  the  name  of  that  place,  iN'o  More. 


That  he  and 
she  and  death 
should  ride 
together. 


I  knew  of  it  ages  ago, 

That  I  should  thunder  that  ride. 

With  her  and  the  night  for  my  woe — 

With  her  and  death  by  my  side — 

Her  and  her  pitiful  pride; — 

And  the  long  hours  whose  shudd'ring  flow 


Where  the 
black  was  as 
Eblis,  and  the 
sounds  as 
worms  moving 
in  a  grave. 


Grew,  while  the  black  grew  thick 

As  the  close,  hot  air  of  a  cave 

In  Eblis,  where  death-watches  tick. 

Like  the  moving  of  worms  in  a  grave  ;- 

Grew,  till  the  dawn  outdrave 

The  black  night,  shudd'ring  and  sick. 


POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 


The  mimes 
chant  their 
despair  to  the 
night. 


Who  were  the  mimes  in  the  air 

That  wept  for  the  woe  of  our  flight, 

That  chanted  a  bitter  despair, 

To  the  dark,  haunted  heart  of  the  night- 

That  knew  not  of  wrong  or  of  right, 

Save  but  of  the  moments  that  were? 


He  sees  the 
past,  as  ruined 
sunsets,  and 
the  early  morn- 
ing of  life. 


The  ruins  of  sunsets  that  hung 
On  the  far,  reeling  edge  of  the  world ; — 
The  long-uttered  thoughts  that  upsprung 
Like  the  ghosts  of  a  past  that  was  furled, 
Where  the  dreams  of  a  life  were  impearled. 
In  a  morning  for  evermore  young ! 


She  also  knew 
the  demons 
that  haunted. 


And  she;   she  knew  even  as  I, 
Of  the  phantoms  that  haunted  us  there; 
Of  the  demons  that  never  could  die, 
While  the  world's  heart  pulsed  our  despair ; 
And  out  where  the  mad  waters  fare. 
The  ghostly,  wan  shorelands  should  lie. 


They  ride  by 
the  hoarse  sea, 
and  the  bitter 
winds  and  hell 
with  them. 


0,  that  night,  and  that  terrible  ride — 
With  the  bitter,  sharp  wind  in  the  face. 
And  the  hoarse,  great  tongues  of  the  tide. 
As  it  beat  on  the  black  of  that  place ; 
Till  all  hell  joined  in  the  race. 
With  death  and  despair  for  a  guide  I 


He  slays  the 
foes  of  his 
guilty  thoughts, 
while  the 
demons  trouble 
bim. 


Many  the  foes  that  I  slew. 

With  the  sword  of  my  guilt,  red  as  blood — 

Many  the  demons  that  blew 

Their  mad  flame-horns  through  my  mood, 

As  I  thundered  that  horrible  wood. 

To  the  place  where  a  world  went  through. 


THE  LAST  RIDE 


263 


Kow  he  hates 
the  morrows 
to  come 


with  the 
remorse  for 
his  wrecked 
days. 


He  knows  the 
end  cometh. 


They  come  to 
the  outer  shore 
and  look  each 
on  each  through 
the  mists,  and 
read  the  ancient 
curse  there, 


and  feel  the 
dread  agony  of 
parting.    Their 
souls  feel  for 
one  another  as 
the  seas  for 
(be  land. 


White,  meagre,  the  days  yet  to  come 
Seemed  wintry  and  hateful  to  me : 
"Would  mornings  wake,  pitiless,  dumb. 
With  horror  and  dread  agony — 
And  the  moan  of  that  terrible  sea 
Beat  the  dead-march  of  life  like  a  drum 

In  the  hands  of  some  hideous  mime — 
Some  strange,  inextinguishable  flame 
That  would  bum  at  my  heart  for  all  time — 
Some  horror  too  dread  to  have  name. 
As  of  one  who  had  played  for  a  game. 
Then  slipped  and  was  lost  in  the  slime  ? 

(I  am  but  the  poor  wreck  of  a  man,) 
When  I  came  to  that  horrible  place, 
(Love  was  never  a  part  of  God's  plan,) 
And  looked  her  and  death  in  the  face. 
And  knew  me  unworthy  and  base. 
And  the  shores  where  the  black  waters 
ran; — 

When  we  came  to  that  lone  outer  shore, 
Where  the  world  sundered,  parting  us  two ; 
(God  and  the  dread  nevermore!) 
When  we  came  where  the  thick  mists  blew. 
So  face  could  scarce  on  face,  through, 
Eead  the  woe-rune  of  earth's  ancient 
lore ; — 

When  hand  stretched  longing  for  hand, 
And  that  strange,  wild  cry  of  the  soul; 
As  the  feeble  sea  feels  for  the  land. 
Or  a  racer  far,  far  from  the  goal ; — 
So  we,  ere  we  drank  of  death's  dole, 
Knew  the  black  night  that  hope  never 
spanned, 


264 


POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


But  he  knows 
the  hour  has 
oome. 


and  the  ang^uish 
at  the  gate  of 
the  nevenaore. 


They  plead  in 
vain  with  time 
while  their 
doom  waits. 


Then  I  knew  as  I  looked  on  her  face, 
(Black,  black  is  the  night  and  the  rain,) 
Sweet  as  a  flower  in  that  place, 
And  heard  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  main; 
That  this  was  the  hour  for  us  twain, 
The  last,  bitter  end  of  the  race. 

And  I  gripped  her  as  man  only  grips 
The  last  gift  that  God  has  for  him. 
And  lived  with  my  lips  on  her  lips 
An  age  that  was  anguished  and  dim; 
And  time  was  as  bubbles  that  swim. 
Or  the  hailing  of  out-faring  ships. 

We  pleaded  and  haggled  with  time, 
With  time  who  was  haggard  and  hoar; 
And  met  the  dread  hell  of  our  crime, 
While  fate  stood  there  at  the  door; —    ' 
With  our  doom  in  his  hand  he  upbore. 
Till  I  heard  each  second's  beat  chime. 


He  feels  that 
they  died  there. 
He  is  but  a  lost 
wreck  on  the 
coast  of  the 
ages  ere  the 
evil  had  power. 


And  dreams  a 
dead  life  with 
but  one  thing 
real  for  him 
which  he  liveth 
over  and  over 
forever,  that 
night  and  the 
woe  that  her 
face  held. 


And  I  know  now  we  died  in  that  hour:- 

I  am  all  but  the  ghost  of  a  man, 

A  mariner  stranded  ashore 

On  some  continent  out  of  God's  plan. 

Made  before  misery  began. 

Or  evil  got  men  in  its  power. 

In  dreams  my  imaginings  trace, 
I  feel  I  lived  somewhere  before. 
Ere  life  was,  in  some  phantom  place. 
Some  land  of  the  haunted  No  More; — 
But,  0  God,  that  night  and  that  shore. 
And  that  ride,  and  the  woe  of  her  face ! 


THE   VIOLIN  I 

The  Violin 

Yea^  take  all  else,  my  life,  or  what  you  will, 

But  leave  me  this.    What  is  it  unto  you? 

A  few  thin  shriveled  bits  of  carven  wood, 

Time-stained  and  polished,  curved  to  curious  form, 

With  strings  to  scrape  on  that  a  man  might  buy 

For  a  few  farthings.    You  say  'tis  a  Cremona? 

'Tis  naught  to  you  or  others,  but  to  me 

My  joy,  my  life !     Once  more  my  hand  grows  strong 

To  clasp  its  curves  and  feel  its  soul  vibrate 

Throughout  my  being ;  for,  believe  me  true. 

It  is  mine  other  self.     Yea,  sit  and  hearken. 

And  I  will  make  it  speak,  yea,  sing  and  sob, 

And  weep  and  laugh  and  throb  its  strings  along 

The  gamut  of  the  passions  of  this  life. 

For  here  dwell  melodies  that  Mozart  played, 

When  he  would  call  the  angels  of  heaven  down 

Along  the  golden  ladders  of  his  dreams. 

Here  sleep  those  notes  vibrate  wherewith  Beethoven 

Did  open  up  those  tragic  wells  of  music. 

And  loose  the  prisoned  ministers  of  sound; 

Wedding  them  to  harmonies  such  as  never 

Before  or  after,  save  God  or  angel,  heard. 

Here  pulse  those  magic  dances  that  throb  through 

The  sensate  universe,  keeping  it  in  tune. 

Warming  the  sunlight,  bluing  the  azure  of  heaven, 

Swaying  the  tides  to  harmonies  of  the  moon: — 

That  stir  those  demon  revellers  of  the  deep, 

And  charm  the  rages  of  those  ruined  souls 

'Mid  horrored  wakings  of  their  eternal  sleep. 

Hark  now  the  tender  melodies  of  this  song. 

It  is  a  charm-song  stolen  from  f aeryland. 

Filled  brim  with  spiced  melodies  of  sleep. 


266  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Now  'tis  the  rest  of  night,  the  breathing  woods. 
The  dewy  hush  of  dawn,  the  peace  of  even, 
Or  slumber  of  noon-day,  'tis  an  infant's  breath. 
Till  higher,  shriller,  it  strikes  the  notes  of  woe, 
The  harsh,  discordant  clangor  of  human  strife: — 
Then,  louder,  stronger,  to  the  strident  not*. 
The  echoing,  vibratant  clarion  horn. 
Or  brazen  trumpets,  with  their  blatant  throats. 
Bugling  along  the  battlements  of  the  world. — 
Ah,  God !  it  breaks  in  discord, — I  have  done. 

I  am  degraded,  old,  I  go  in  rags ; — 
The  children  cry  at  me  along  the  streets; 
Your  lords  and  ladies  shudder  and  scorn  me  by; 
Your  glittering  palaces  are  barred  against  me; 
Your  power  and  splendor  alien  to  my  life: — 
But  what  is  wealth  to  him  who  holds  my  riches, 
What  splendor  to  the  splendors  that  I  draw 
From  out  this  shriveled  universe  of  sound? 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  bit  of  withered  wood, 

Cunningly  built,  and  welded  into  shape. 

With  some  few  strings  a  groat  or  so  might  buy. — 

But  when  I  die  I  will  beg  them  place  it  near  me. 

Within  my  coffin,  close  here  to  my  heart; 

That  through  the  long,  lone  autumn  night  of  death, 

My  spirit  may  vibrate  to  its  living  strings. 

Immortal  with  the  chords  that  Mozart  struck, 

That  Paganini  played,  Beethoven  rang. 

And  when  I  wake,  if  ever  there  be  waking. 
Beyond  that  awful  sleep  that  follows  life, — 
My  soul  will  wing  to  heaven  on  its  strings. 
For  did  I  know,  how  could  I  plead  with  God 
Without  its  melodies  to  voice  my  love, 
Aji4  heaven  no  heaven  without  my  violin, 


SONGS  FROM  " MORDRED"*  267 

Songs  from  **  Mordred  '* 

"And  Who'd  be  Wise?" 

Dagonet — 

And  who'd  be  wise 

And  full  of  sighs. 

And  care  and  evil  borrow; 

When  to  be  a  fool 

Is  to  go  to  school 

To  Happy-go-luck-to-morrow  ? 

Who'd  tread  the  road, 

And  feel  the  goad, 

And  bear  the  sweatsome  burden; 

When  loves  are  light. 

And  paths  are  bright 

Of  follj^s  pleasant  guerdon? 

Sigh  while  we  may, 

We  cannot  stay 

The  sun,  nor  hold  its  shining. 

So  joy  the  nonce, 

We  live  but  once, 

And  die  for  all  our  pining. 

Who'd  be  a  king 

And  wear  a  ring 

And  age  his  youth  with  sorrow; 

When  to  be  a  fool 

Is  to  go  to  school 

To  Happy-go-luck-to-morrow  ? 


268  POEMS  OF   WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Blue  is  the  Summer  Morning's  Sky." 

Blue  is  the  summer  morning's  sky. 
And  birds  are  glad  and  merry. 
And  Annans  eyes  are  sweet  and  sly, 
Her  cheeks  like  any  cherry; — 
Her  lips  like  dewy  rosebuds  are 
Upon  the  gladsome  morning. 
She  is  my  love,  my  heart's  glad  star. 
In  spite  of  ail  her  scorning. 

So  fill  the  cup  of  gladness  up 
And  drink  to  youth  and  morning. 
Let  sadness  go  with  evening  sup, 
I'm  hers  for  all  her  scorning, 

"  Morning  Her  Face  Is  " 

Morning  her  face  is. 
Blue  seas  her  eyes, 
All  of  earth's  sweetness 
In  their  light  lies. 

Coral  her  lips  are, 
Red  reefs  of  doom. 
There  do  Love's  ships  drive 
Down  to  their  doom. 

There  would  I  shipwreck. 
Swooning  to  death. 
Passing  to  darkness. 
On  the  winds  of  her  breath. 


SONGS  FROM  ''MORDRED**  269 

"  Love." 

0  Love,  that  lights  this  world. 
Yet  leaves  us  i'  the  dark; — 

1  led  thee  to  my  couch, 

A  grave-cloth  was  thy  sark ! 

0  Love,  we  would  be  clothed. 
And  thou  hast  left  us  stark. 

Lancelot  {crazed)  sings — 

Once  there  was  a  castle  hall. 
Fair,  fair  to  see, 

Armored  dight,  and  splendored  all. 
Filled  with  shout  o'  revelry. 
Came  the  hosts  o'  fate  and  rage 
Thundered  on  its  walls  amain. 
Sunken  now  like  ruined  age. 
Never  laughs  its  light  again, 

1  loved  a  Queen  and  she  loved  me. 
Aye,  that  were  long  ago ! 

Come  now  wrack,  come  now  woe. 
Strike  now  lightning,  beat  now  snow! 
Memory,  I'll  ha'  none  o'  thee ! 

Dagonet  sings — 

There  may  be  poison  in  the  cup 

But  still  the  foam  must  cling. 

To  keep  the  strong  world's  courage  up 

Poor  fools  must  laugh  and  sing; 

With  sobs  below  and  smiles  above, 

A-masking  day  by  day. 

On  trampled,  bleeding  hopes  of  love. 

So  whirls  the  world  away  I 


270  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

There  may  be  breaking  of  the  heart, 
Though  merry  laughs  the  eye. 
Still  we  poor  fools  must  act  our  part, 
And  laugh,  and  weep,  and  die. 
Still  musi  we  sportive  battles  wage. 
With  foam  of  lightsome  breath. 
While  underneath  the  currents  rage 
And  wrecks  are  churned  to  death. 

Dagonet  sings — 

It  rose  upon  the  month  o'  May, 
When  woods  were  filled  with  laughter ; 
Came  Margery  tripping  up  the  way. 
And  Jock  a-stealing  after. 

It  rose  in  Autumn's  aitemoon. 
When  love  was  dead  and  laughter; 
That  Jock  went  striding  'neath  the  moon. 
And  Margery  pining  after. 


Sonnets 


THE  BUILDERS  273 

Our  Heritage 

Not  all  the  fire  of  Bums,  the  mind  of  Scott, 
The  stern  and  holy  human  zeal  of  Knox, 
Nor  that  wise  lore  which  human  life  unlocks 

Of  magic  Shakespeare,  Bacon's  subtlest  thought, 

Nor  Milton's  lofty  line  sublimely  wrought, 

Not  gentle  Wordsworth  'mid  his  fields  and  fiocks. 
Nor  mystic  Coleridge  of  the  wizard  locks, 

Hath  power  to  raise  us  to  our  loftiest  lot: 

But  that  rare  quality,  that  national  dream. 
That  lies  behind  this  genius  at  its  core, 
Which  gave  it  vision,  utterance ;  evermore, 

It  will  be  with  us,  as  those  stars  that  gleam. 
Eternal,  hid  behind  the  lights  of  day, 
A  people's  best,  that  may  not  pass  away. 

The  Builders 

Each  fane  we  build  is  part  of  God's  great  thought, 
One  stone  in  His  rare  temple  thundered  down 
In  some  old  wreck  of  wisdom's  past  renown. 

So  we  rebuild,  in  each  gold  hour  rebought 

From  life's  dread  waste  of  folly  foiled  and  fraught. 
With  falsity,  where  in  her  tinsel  crown 
Philistia's  Queen  doth  laugh  all  effort  down, 

While  Nature's  eremites  toil  and  heed  her  not. 

So  we  rebuild,  till,  in  some  afterday, 

'Mid  dreams  confused  this  temple  rears  its  dome. 
To  point  to  men  a  fairer,  gladder  way, 

To  ease  earth's  being  down  to  its  long  home, 
And  make  life  greater  for  those  weary  men 
Who  toil  in  trade's  mad  mart  or  care's  grim  fen. 


274  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  Higher  Kinship 

Life  is  too  grim  with  anxious,  eating  care 
To  cherish  what  is  best.    Our  souls  are  scarred 
By  daily  agonies,  and  our  conscience  marred 

By  petty  t3rrannies  that  waste  and  wear. 

Why  is  this  human  fate  so  hard  to  bear? 

Could  we  but  live  with  hill-lakes  silver-starred, 
Or  where  the  eternal  silence  leaneth  toward 

The  awful  front  of  nature,  waste  and  bare: 

Then  might  we,  brothers  to  the  lofty  thought 
And  inward  self-communion  of  her  dream. 
Into  that  closer  kin  with  love  be  brought. 
Where  mighty  hills  and  woods  and  waters,  wan. 
Moon-paved  at  midnight  or  godlike  at  dawn. 
Hold  all  earth's  aspirations  in  their  gleam. 

Nature  the  Benign 

Nature,  the  terrible,  cruel,  deaf,  malign! 

So  men  have  named  her  in  their  vague  alarm. 
Who  know  her  outward  only.    Never  harm 

Came  to  the  soul  that  read  her  secret  sign. 

Lived  her  pure  laws,  and  dreamed  her  dream  benign, 
That  broodeth  eternal  ever  kind  and  warm. 
With  rare  imagination's  ancient  charm. 

Where  all  her  lores  and  kindred  loves  entwine. 

Not  hers  the  working  of  blind  woes  and  ills. 
Unanswered  hunger  and  the  futile  breath 
Of  wasted  suffering  and  unneeded  death; — • 

Behind  the  formless  mask,  the  seeming  strife. 

Bound  by  a  law  as  old  as  her  own  hills, 

She  is  a  spirit,  and  her  joy  is  life. 


MV  RELIGION  276 

The  Soul 

What  bears  me  up  ?    'Tis  not  this  earthly  frame. 
These  vigorous  limbs,  this  solid  teeming  earth. 
That  bore  me  patient  ever  since  my  birth ; 

But  something  inward,  some  fierce  mystic  flame. 

For  which  our  language  hath  no  subtler  name 
Than  spirit :  some  dread  hidden  lamp  of  life. 
Behind  the  ego  dense,  the  passions  rife, 

That  looks  far  out  and  dreams  from  whence  it  came. 

Those  others  weaken.    Fever,  sin,  disease. 

The  shock  of  mountains  and  great  toppling  seas 

Shatter  their  being:  this  that  dwells  within 
Knows  other  base  of  power  more  secret,  dread. 
Drawn  forth,  eternal,  from  some  fountain-head 

Of  power  and  life,  where  sense  hath  never  been. 

My  Religion 

Let  other  men  to  other  faiths  defer. 
This  is  my  creed,  I  live  by  it  alone: 
Not  unto  gods  of  self  or  carven  stone 

Do  I  bow  down  'mid  mists  of  mind  that  blur; 

Let  myriad  schools  their  myriad  truths  aver. 
Place  Superstition  on  her  ancient  throne. 
Or  callous  Eeason  to  reign  in  ice  alone; 

Earth's  truth  was  never  taught  by  her,  or  her. 

This  is  my  creed,  where  each  man  hath  his  own, 
God  is  a  spirit,  love  with  insight  blends, 
Make  to  thyself  earth's  rarest,  highest  friends. 

Truth,  wisdom,  beauty:  let  all  else  alone; — 
Beyond  all  doubts  and  dread  dogmatic  fears. 
These  speak  for  God  along  His  ancient  years. 
18 


276  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Toleration 

Toleration  for  the  alien  soul, 

Who  thinketh  different  from  thy  special  dream 
Of  how  earth's  freedom  widens  its  pure  stream 

To  this  world's  splendid,  ultimate,  mighty  whole: 

Yea,  toleration  for  the  one  whose  goal 

Is  equal,  though  'tis  reached  by  other  ways : 
For  other  dreams  of  other  hopes  and  days : 

While  over  all  the  same  wide  heavens  roll. — 

But  for  the  tyrant,  he  who  would  enslave : 

Wouldst  tolerate  the  wolf  thy  child  would  clutch, 

The  eating  flame,  the  rude  engulfing  wave 

That  would  destroy  thee?    Nay,  nay,  unto  such 

The  barrier  walls,  the  iron  gates  that  gird. 

The  dread  denial,  the  hate,  the  sanguine  sword. 

September 

As  ONE  who  lieth  on  a  bed  of  death. 

And  knowing  in  truth  that  he  hath  soon  to  die. 
For  months  and  months  in  silent  dream  doth  lie. 

And  mind  grown  clear,  his  whole  life  pondereth. 

And  sees  it  fade  before  him  like  a  breath 

That  smokes  a  glass;  so  thou,  hushed  month,  dost 

dream 
The  whole  year's  memories  in  thy  quiet  gleam 

Of  inward  thought  that  no  speech  uttereth. 

Here,  haply,  musing  by  thy  silent  fields. 

Thy  ripened  woods,  thy  brown,  shorn  harvest  floors, 
And  hazy  hillsides,  he  who  seeks  may  find 

The  sort  of  soul  he  is,  and  at  thy  doors 
Of  inward  contemplation  lend  his  mind 
To  those  high  reveries  nature's  heart  reveals. 


THE   TRUTH  277 

Nature's  Truth 

Natuee,  give  me  thy  truth,  for  I  am  worn 

With  outward  knowledge  of  this  surface  world. 
Men  know  thy  trees,  thy  hills,  thy  clouds  upcurled. 

Thy  dreams  at  even  and  thy  dews  at  mom. 

Thy  great  sky-temples,  domed  or  thunder-torn; 
Thy  lakes,  thy  rivers  hushed  or  seaward  hurled, 
Thy  limpid  brooks,  thy  grasses  dew  impearled. 

And  all  thy  beauty  love  or  wonder  born. 

But  that  rare  glory,  that  invisible. 

Undreamed-of  vision  of  thine  under  deeps, 
That  face  behind  earth's  face  that  never  sleeps. 

That  mystic  word  our  wisdom  fails  to  spell. 
Which  man  calls  genius,  that  sincerity. 
That  magic  seeing  heart,  give,  give  to  me. 

The  Trudi 

Not  what  is  true  in  this  place  or  in  yon. 
But  what  is  truest  for  the  whole  world's  ill, 
Eolling  its  stone  eternal  up  its  hill. 

Or  Ixion-like,  stretched  fate's  grim  wheel  upon, 

Hungering  long  o'er  opportunity  gone; 

Or  like  blind  Samson,  grinding  his  grim  mill, 
Crippled  and  futile;  yet  with  one  sweet  thrill 

For  some  old  springtime  or  unrisen  dawn; 

That  somewhere,  sometime,  through  the  fateful  years. 
Earth's  disappointment  and  her  urgent  strife, 
Man's  soul  might  reach  some  outer  door  of  life; 

And  stripped  of  folly's  garb  and  time's  poor  fears, 
Grow  large  and  godlike,  as  those  cloud-dreams  furled, 
And  splendid  deeps  that  drift  cbout  the  world. 


278  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Life's  Inferno 

I  STOOD  last  night  on  Dante's  bridge  of  woe, 
And  saw  that  awful  host  of  those  who  pass. 
Like  phantom  shadows  on  a  wizard's  glass, 

In  all  dread  miseries  of  the  stygian  throe. 

I  saw  the  fated  lovers  come  and  go 
In  agony  of  love's  despair,  alas, 
Ixion's  wheel;  and  Sisyphus'  taunting  glass 

Escape  his  lips  amid  the  hellish  glow. 

But  nowhere  saw  I  ill  so  great  as  here 
Goes  grinding  sadly,  patient  day  by  day, 
Jealousy,  hate,  yon  miser  aged  and  grey 

Gripping  his  gold  with  mocking  death  anear; 
Or  that  dread  dart  of  all  dread  woes  above. 
Earth's 'agony  of  unrequited  love. 

Death 

When  He  who  built  this  magic  wizardry 
Of  sky  and  earth  and  sea  and  human  heart. 
And  planning  brain  and  all  that  holdeth  part 

In  fleeting  Joy  and  quick  mortality. 

From  azure  peak  to  purpled  rim  of  sea. 
Shall  come  again,  and  by  His  wizard  art. 
Dissolve  the  pearl,  and  bid  the  guest  depart 

From  this  high  house  of  being's  majesty: — 

May  He  not  come  as  summons  shrill  at  morn. 
Or  sudden  tempest  shaking  life's  frail  tower, 
Or  angry  black  when  storms  and  tempests  lower ; 

But  soft  at  even  ere  the  stars  be  bom. 
And  love  lets  down  her  gradual  veils  of  sleep. 
So  my  soul  pass  from  splendid  deep  to  deep. 


TRUE  INSIGHT  279 

The  Consolation  of  the  Stars 

Where  white  Orion  rules  the  hosts  of  night. 
And  grim  Arctunis  wheels  his  ancient  round. 
If  there  be  any  soul  by  earth-weight  bound. 

Let  him  here  come,  and  if  he  hath  a  blight 

Of  poisoned  spirit,  let  him  note  the  flight 

Of  those  great  seers  of  centuries,  without  sound. 
Patient,  orderly,  in  their  mystic  swound. 

Wheeling  forever  eternal  hills  of  light. 

Let  him  here  pause;  and  if  he  hath  a  care, 
A  poisoned  arrow  rankling  in  his  heart 

Of  human  sorrow,  or  ill  too  great  to  bear. 
From  off  his  spirit  like  mists  it  will  depart, 

And  in  these  dreams  'twixt  golden  dusk  and  day 

Eebuild  his  soul  for  its  appointed  way. 

True  Insight 

They  never  know  who  only  know  alone. 

Who  deeply  knows  must  also  deeply  feel. 

Life  is  a  Imife  ground  on  a  grinder's  wheel, 
A  sea-worn  crag,  a  river-polished  stone. 
Knowledge  for  suffering  doth  to  love  atone. 

0  who  would  not  to  grim  experience  kneel. 

And  feel  the  fiat  of  fate's  averted  heel, 
To  know  in  truth  the  great  world's  under-moan. 

There  in  her  dungeons  where  her  weird  mimes  flit. 
Behind  the  curtains  of  her  phantom  show. 

With  grim  reality  for  aye  to  sit. 

And  watch  those  puppet-maskers  come  and  go. 

Who  build  the  shadow-dreams  that  rise  and  fall. 

Grotesque,  distorted,  on  life's  sombre  wall. 


280  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  House  Divine 

Not  in  the  cavemed  aisles  of  cloistered  gloom, 
Or  chancelled  splendors  built  in  carven  stone, 
Where  censer  smoke  goes  up  and  choirs  intone 

Those  sad  dread  litanies  of  human  doom, 

That  lend  an  added  horror  to  the  tomb ; 

N'or  where  the  modern  dervish  maketh  moan, 
And  smites  his  forehead  with  impenitent  groan. 

Doth  faith's  rare  flower  of  reverence  wake  and 
bloom : 

But  out  in  hallowed  halls  of  dawn  or  night. 
Where  overhead  the  censer  stars  outswing. 
Eternity  and  night  in  one  vast  ring, 

Or  hid  impulses  of  inmoving  light ; 

Behind  him  all  the  mystery  of  his  race, 
Doth  man  with  Deity  come  close  face  to  face. 

"Not  Unto  Endless  Dark" 

Not  unto  endless  dark  do  we  go  down, 

Though  all  the  wisdom  of  wide  earth  said  yea. 
Yet  my  fond  heart  would  throb  eternal  nay. 

Night,  prophet  of  morning,  wears  her  starry  crown. 

And  jewels  with  hope  her  murkiest  shades  that  frown. 
Death's  doubt  is  kernelled  in  each  prayer  we  pray. 
Eternity  but  night  in  some  vast  day 

Of  God's  far-off  red  flame  of  love's  renown. 

Not  unto  endless  dark.    We  may  not  know 
The  distant  deeps  to  which  our  hopings  go. 

The  tidal  shores  where  ebbs  our  fleeting  breath : 
But  over  ill  and  dread  and  doubf  s  fell  dart. 
Sweet  hope,  eternal,  holds  the  human  heart. 

And  love  laughs  down  the  desolate  dusks  of  death. 


NATURES  SINCERITY  281 

The  Wind's  Royalty 

This  summer  day  is  all  one  palace  rare, 
Builded  by  architects  of  life  unseen. 
In  elfin  hours  the  sim  and  moon  between, 

Up  out  of  quarries  of  the  sea  and  air. 

And  earth's  fine  essences.    Aladdin's  were 
But  tinsel  sheen  beside  this  gloried  dream. 
High,  sunny-windowed,  walled  by  wood  and  stream. 

And  high,  dome-roofed,  blue  burnished,  beyond 
compare. 

Here  reigns  a  king,  the  happiest  known  on  earth. 
That  blithesome  monarch  mortals  call  the  wind, 

Who  roves  his  galleries  wide  in  vagrant  mirth. 
His  courtier  clouds  obedient  to  his  mind; 

Or  when  he  sleeps  his  sentinel  stars  are  still. 

With  ethiop  guards  o'ertopping  some  grave  hill. 


Nature's  Sincerity 

Not  by  fine  straining  above  our  natural  powers. 
Or  standing  tiptoe  over  greater  heads. 
Do  we  beget  that  greatness  nature  weds 

To  her  sure  actions  and  her  patient  hours. 

Nor  yet  by  building  arrogant  Babel  towers, 
And  aping  genius,  do  we  spin  those  threads 
Of  grave  existence,  which  the  world  besteads 

When  fortune  fails  and  life's  horizon  lowers. 

Not  thus  doth  Nature  tread  her  patient  rounds 
In  gloom  of  darkness  or  in  wine  of  light, 

Flaming  the  wheel  of  her  slow  fixed  bounds, 
Eevivifying  day  in  womb  of  night : 

Plodding  her  dream  in  mists  of  mightiest  powers. 

Working  her  miracles  in  her  natural  hours. 


282  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  Soul's  Cloister 

Amid  the  mighty  struggles  of  the  day. 

The  burdened  armies  of  huge  toil  enlocked, 
In  trade's  grim  battle-grounds  ambition-rocked, 

And  busy  marts  of  all  the  world's  loud  fray, 

The  truer  moods  of  being  flee  away, 

With  all  the  gentler  dreams  of  life  that  flocked 
From  love's  hyperion  fields,  now  cursed  and  mocked 

By  iron  mouths  and  brazen  throats  that  bray. 

But  in  the  hush  of  those  diviner  hours, 

The  meditative  silences  of  night, 
When  Nature  reasserts  her  holier  powers. 

And  all  false  dreams  and  garish  take  their  flight. 
Those  rarer  moods  of  dream  return  to  dwell 
'Mid  these  white  towers  of  truth  invisible. 

Earth's  Innocence 

Wrap  me,  kind  Nature,  in  thy  fold  of  dreams. 
Out  from  this  life  and  its  brute-selfishness, 
Its  anguished  strivings  for  the  boons  that  bless. 

Its  base  ambitions  and  its  bauble  gleams 

That  lure  poor  souls,  like  foolish  fish  in  streams. 
From  sunbeam  into  sunbeam ;  profitless. 
Make  me  a  part  of  thine  own  happiness. 

With  which  thy  realm,  honey-nurtured,  teems. 

Give  me  once  more  thine  olden  innocence 
Of  bird  and  bee;  the  sunshine-built  romance 

Of  hour  to  hour,  by  wood  and  field  and  deep ; 
Co-heir  with  those  blithe  wanderers  of  thy  fields, 
To  whom  alone  life's  open-sesame  yields. 

Like  little  children,  morning,  flowers  and  sleep. 


FO  UNDA  TIONS  283 

Love 

The  truest  is  the  simplest.    Why  entail 

Whole  days  of  years  to  some  complex  pursuit, 
To  probe  life's  flower  and  analyze  its  fruit? 

0  weary  student,  perplexed,  spectre-pale. 

Why  beat  against  the  granite  of  thy  gaol, 

Self -built;  or  kill  the  flower  to  search  the  root? 
Doth  lore  make  mankind  any  less  the  brute  ? 

Or  knowledge  alone  for  godlike  flight  avail  ? 

'Tis  love  draws  all  from  earth  to  heaven's  heights. 
Not  all  thy  weary  lore  of  sleepless  nights 

Hath  power  to  touch  like  one  low  daisied  sod; — 
'Tis  love,  not  lore,  whatever  come  to  pass. 
We  are  but  child-kin  to  the  birds  and  grass, — 

And  he  who  yearns,  life's  heir,  and  kin  to  God. 

Foundations 

We  are  what  nature  made  us :  soon  or  late. 
Life's  art  that  fadeth  passeth  slow  away. 
With  iron  eatings  of  our  sordid  day. 

Leaving  behind  those  influences,  innate. 

Immutable,  divine.    As  round  some  great, 

Eude,  craggy  isle,  the  loud  surf's  ravening  fray 
Shatters  all  life  in  spume  of  thundered  spray. 

Leaving  huge  cliffs,  scarred,  grim,  in  naked  state: 

So  life  and  all  its  idols  hath  its  hour. 
Its  fleet,  ephemeral  dream,  its  passing  show, 
Its  pomp  of  fevered  hopes  that  come  and  go : 

Then  stripped  of  vanity  and  folly's  power. 
Like  some  wide  water  bared  to  moon  and  star. 
We  know  ourselves  in  truth  for  what  we  are. 


284  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  Poet 

He  sings  and  sings ;  ye  cannot  stop  his  lute ; — 
Hunger  and  misery,  death  and  man's  disdain, 
And  all  that  grieves  and  gives  poor  mortals  pain. 

Sorrow  and  shame — these  cannot  make  him  mute. 

Brother  to  days  that  gather  little  fruit. 

Shunned  by  the  mob,  and  scorned  of  sordid  gain. 
He  walks  his  way  for  love  and  music  fain, 

Loving  poor  life  that  song  be  at  its  root. 

And  when  spring  eves  are  red  or  ozier-pale. 

He  wanders  where  earth's  children  lisp  their  tale 

To  tender  skies  whose  misty  stars  look  down; — 
And  all  love's  realms  are  his,  the  budding  hours 
Of  children,  brooks  and  winds  and  grass  and  flowers, — 

A  king  whom  death  alone  may  dare  uncrown. 

The  Politician 

Caeven  in  leathern  mask  or  brazen  face, 

Were  I  time's  sculptor,  I  would  set  this  man. 
Eetreating  from  the  truth,  his  hawk-eyes  scan 

The  platforms  of  all  public  thought  for  place. 

There  wriggling  with  insinuating  grace. 
He  takes  poor  hope  and  effort  by  the  hand. 
And  flatters  with  half-truths  and  accents  bland. 

Till  even  zeal  and  earnest  love  grow  base. 

Knowing  no  right,  save  power's  grim  right-of-way; 

No  nobleness,  save  life's  ignoble  praise; 
No  future,  save  this  sordid  day  to  day ; 

He  is  the  curse  of  these  material  days : 
Juggling  with  mighty  wrongs  and  mightier  lies. 
This  worshipper  of  Dagon  and  his  flies ! 


THE  PATRIOT  286 

Sublimity 

That  rarer  essence,  that  which  lies  behind 
Our  truest  beauty,  light  of  beauty's  core. 
Where  all  truth  rises,  font  of  wisdom's  lore, 

Back  of  all  dreams  of  human  heart  and  mind. 

At  life's  great  well  heads  where  earth's  gropings, 
blind. 
Fumble  for  Deity  round  their  caverned  floor. 
As  some  great  water  feeling  for  his  door. 

Azure  of  ocean,  where  sea-caverns  wind: 

So  in  our  nature's  far  recessional  deeps 

It  dwells,  this  greatness,  at  the  heart  of  things. 
Where  wisdom  broods  with  ancient  folded  wings. 

And  all  those  hid  impulses  of  earth's  youth. 

All  know  this  presence  sometime  'mid  life's  ways, 

Only  the  few  who  follow  love  and  truth 
Feel  earth's  sublimity  all  their  human  days. 

The  Patriot 

Born  with  a  love  for  truth  and  liberty. 
And  earnest  for  the  public  right,  he  stands 
Like  solitary  pine  in  wasted  lands, — 

Or  some  paladin  of  old  legends,  he 

Would  live  that  other  souls  like  his  be  free. 

Not  caring  for  self  or  pelf  or  pandering  power. 
He  thunders  incessant,  earnest,  hour  by  hour. 

Till  some  old  despot  shackle  cease  to  be. 

Not  his  the  gaudy  title,  nor  the  place 

Where  hungry  fingers  clutch  his  country's  gold: 
But  where  the  trodden  crouch  in  evil  case. 

His  cause  is  theirs,  to  lighten  or  to  hold ; 
His  monument,  the  people's  glad  acclaim; 
And  title  high,  a  love  more  great  than  fame. 


POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


Night 

Home  of  the  pure  in  heart  and  tranquil  mind, 
Temple  of  love's  white  silence,  holy  Night ; 
Greater  than  splendid  thought  or  iron  might. 

Thy  lofty  peace  unswept  by  any  wind 

Of  human  sorrow,  leaves  all  care  behind. 
Uplifted  to  the  zenith  of  thy  height. 
My  world-worn  spirit  drinks  thy  calm  delight. 

And,  chrysalis-like,  lets  slip  its  earthly  rind. 

The  blinded  feuds,  base  passions  and  fierce  guilt, 
Vain  pride  and  falseness  that  enslaved  the  day. 
Here  dwindle  and  fade  with  all  that  mocks 
and  mars ; 
Where  wisdom,  awed,  walks  hushed  with  lips 
that  pray, 
'Neath  this  high  minster,  dim,  invisible,  built. 
Vast,  walled  with  deeps  of  space  and  roofed 
with  stars. 


Job 

In  all  that  olden  Israelitish  lore 
Whose  lofty  beauty  fills  the  ages'  span, 

'Mid  all  those  mighiy  souls  who  being  bore. 
There  was  one  man,  a  king,  who  lived  a  man. 

Smitten  of  heaven,  scourged  of  all  earth's  woes. 
With  love  and  kinship,  wealth  forsworn  and  fled ; 

Stung  by  those  friends,  worse  ills  to  men  than  foes. 
Tormenting  where  they  might  have  comforted : — 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  COLUMBUS  287 

Stripped  of  all  hopes  that  common  men  hold  dear, 
Polluted  of  body,  clothed  with  leprous  scars, 
There  'mid  his  ashes  alien  from  his  race. 
He  still  maintained  his  being  without  fear. 
And  lifting  agonized  eyeballs  to  the  stars. 
Did  question  Deity,  naked,  face  to  face. 


On  a  Picture  of  Columbus 

Not  for  one  age  was  it  given  thee  to  be; 
Out-living  all  in  thine  immortal  span. 
Thou  wondrous,  titan,  godlike  minded  man; 

Earth's  little  lives  comparable  to  thee 

As  meadow  tarns  unto  the  mighty  sea ; 

'Mid  few  great  souls,  create  since  time  began. 
Thy  spirit  ever  seems  to  brood  and  scan, 

Strong,  self-contained,  time's  lone  immensity. 

Nor  dread  Atlantic  did  thy  purpose  daunt: 

Scorning  the  trackless  paths  toward  ocean's  verge, 

Thine  eyes  sought  ever  where  Hesperides  haunt, — 
Thy  spirit  rode  above  all  weak  despair. 

Seeing  in  visions  gleaming  coasts  emerge 

Out  of  the  Wild  and  Limitless,  waste  and  bare. 


288  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Shelley 

Spirit  of  fire  and  snow  and  heart  all  dew, 
.  Child  of  the  midnight's  glory  and  the  stars, 

Whose  mad,  sweet  chanting  smote  to  heaven's  bars : — 
Brother,  ethereal,  to  that  glorious  few 
Who  from  earth's  beauty  song's  high  triumphs  drew; — 

Beyond  the  earthy,  like  some  paler  Mars, 

Winging  above  thine  age's  petty  jars, 
Thy  song  to  heaven  meteor-like  out-flew. 

First  came  one  great  in  love's  majestic  calm, 
The  wizard  singer  of  all  singing  men; 

Then  he  who  sang  in  high  immortal  psalm 

That  greatest  of  all  love's  great,  sad  rebels.    Then 

Thou  earnest,  angel  of  the  starry  lyre* 

Raining  the  dusk  with  melody  of  fire. 


Saoas  ot  IDaster  Britain 


CANADA  291 


Britain 

Grkat  patient  Titan,  'neath  thy  wearying  load 
Of  modern  statecraft,  human  helpfulness; 
To  whom  do  come  earth's  weak  in  their  distress 

To  crave  thine  arm  to  avert  the  oppressor's  goad : 

Thou  sovereignty  within  thine  isled  abode. 

Hated  and  feared,  where  thou  wouldst  only  bless, 
By  fools  who  dream  thine  iron  mightiness 

"Will  crumble  in  ruin  across  the  world's  wide  road, — 

Though  scattered  thy  sons  o'er  leagues  of  empire's  rim. 
Alien,  remote,  by  severing  wind  and  tide ; — 

Yet  every  Briton  who  knows  thy  blood  in  him 
In  that  dread  hour  will  marshal  to  thy  side: — 

And  if  thou  crumbiest  earth's  whole  frame  will  groan. 

God  help  this  world,  thou  wilt  not  sink  alone! 


Canada 

Thou  land  for  gods,  or  those  of  old 
Whom  men  deemed  gods,  of  loftier  mould, 

Sons  of  the  vast,  the  hills,  the  sea: 
Masters  of  earth's  humanity : 

I  stand  here  where  this  autumn  morn 
Autumnal  garbs  thy  hills  adorn. 

And  all  thy  woodlands  flame  with  fire, 
And  glory  of  the  world's  desire. 
19 


292  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Far  northward  lie  thy  purple  hills. 

Far  vasts  between,  thy  great  stream  fills, 

Ottawa,  his  fleet  tides  impearled, 
From  deep  to  deep,  adown  the  world. 

0  land,  by  every  gift  of  God 

Brave  home  of  freemen,  let  thy  sod. 

Sacred  with  blood  of  hero  sires. 
Spurn  from  its  breast  ignobler  fires. 

Keep  on  these  shores  where  beauty  reigns. 
And  vastness  folds  from  peak  to  plains. 

With  room  for  all  from  hills  to  sea, 
No  shackled,  helot  tyranny. 

Spurn  from  thy  breast  the  bigot  lie. 
The  smallness  not  of  earth  or  sky, 

Breed  all  thy  sons  brave  stalwart  men. 
To  meet  the  world  as  one  to  ten. 

Breed  all  thy  daughters  mothers  true. 
Magic  of  that  glad  joy  of  you. 

Till  liberties  thy  hills  adorn 

As  wide  as  thy  wide  fields  of  com. 

Let  that  brave  soul  of  Britain's  race 
That  peopled  all  this  vastness,  trace 

Its  freedoms  fought,  ideals  won. 

Strength  built  on  strength  from  sire  to  son. 


TO   THE  CANADIAN  PATRIOT  293 

Till  from  thy  earth-wide  hills  and  seas, 
Thy  manhood  as  thy  strength  of  trees. 

Thy  liberty  alone  compare 

With  thy  wide  winnowed  mountain  air. 

And  round  earth's  rim  thine  honor  glows. 
Unsullied  as  thy  drifted  snows. 


To  the  Canadian  Patriot 

This  is  the  land  of  the  rugged  North ;  these  wide. 
Life-yielding  fields,  these  inland  oceans ;  these 
Vast  rivers  moving  seaward  their  wide  floods, 
Majestic  music:  these  sky-bounded  plains 
And  heaven-topping  mountains ;  these  iron  shores. 
Facing  toward  either  ocean ;  fit  home,  alone. 
For  the  indomitable  and  nobly  strong. 

In  that  dread  hour  of  evil  when  thy  land 

Is  rent  with  strifes  and  ground  with  bigotry. 

And  all  looks  dark  for  honor,  and  poor  Truth 

Walks  cloaked  in  shadow,  alien  from  her  marts, 

Go  forth  alone  and  view  the  earth  and  sky. 

And  those  eternal  waters,  moving,  vast. 

In  endless  duty,  ever  rendering  pure 

Those  mild  or  angry  airs ;  the  gladdening  sun, 

Keviving,  changing,  weaving  life  from  death; 

Those  elemental  uses  nature  puts 

Her  patient  hours  to;  and  then  thou  shalt  know 

A  larger  vista,  glean  a  greater  truth 

Than  man  has  put  into  his  partial  creeds 

Of  blinded  feud  and  custom.    Thou  wilt  know 

That  nature's  laws  are  greater  and  more  sure, 


294  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

More  calm,  more  patient,  wise  and  tolerant, 
Than  these  poor  futile  efforts  of  our  dream ; 
That  human  life  is  stronger  in  its  yearning 
Than  those  blind  walls  our  impotence  builds  between  ; 
And  underneath  this  calloused  rind  we  see. 
As  the  obedient  tides  the  swaying  moon, 
A  mightier  law  the  whole  wide  world  obeys. 
And  far  beyond  these  mists  of  human  vision 
God's  great  horizon  stands  out  fixed  and  sure. 


To  the  United  Stales 

O  THOUSAND  years  of  Britain's  pride. 

One  hundred  of  your  own, 

Of  throbbing  fires  of  liberty 

Bred  in  your  blood  and  bone ; 

0  stalwart  'mid  the  nations 

To-day  alone  you  stand, 

The  fate  and  being  of  a  world 

Within  your  puissant  hand. 

And  shall  the  scale  say  bloodshed. 

Or  shall  the  word  be  peace  ? 

Shall  brute  and  blind  and  cruel  Force 

Eule,  or  his  thunders  cease? 

Shall  man  go  back  a  century. 

And  dream  an  alien  dream. 

Of  clashing  arms,  of  sabre  stroke, 

Of  leaguered  shore  agleam? 

Or  shall  the  world  go  forward 

To  wisdom  and  surcease 

Of  brutal  strife,  to  the  higher  life 

Of  brotherhood  and  peace? 


RESPONSIBILITY  295 

O  thousand  years  of  Britain's  pride, 

One  hundred  of  your  own, 

Child  of  the  greatest  mother-stock 

The  world  hath  ever  known; 

Who  hold  within  your  honor. 

Who  keep  athwart  your  pride. 

The  hope  or  wrecking  of  a  world; 

Hold  back  the  bloody  tide ! 

Show  men  that  justice,  patience. 

Are  nobler  far  than  hate. 

You  with  your  million  valiant  hearts 

Entrenched  by  each  sea-gate. 

You  who  could  hurl  the  eastern  world 

Back  into  either  sea. 

Show,  greater  far  than  iron  force, 

'Tis  peace  that  rules  the  free. 

That  far  from  western  granite  gates 

Old  battles'  smoke  hath  blown; 

Thou  thousand  years  of  Britain's  pride, 

One  hundred  of  your  own. 


Responsibility 

Man  is  not  evil  when  he  stands  alone, 

'Tis  in  the  aggregate  he  loses  truth, 
And  builds  him  up  life's  weakness  by  his  ruth. 

No  single  conscience  makes  its  brother  moan. 

The  slaving  toiler  withered  to  the  bone. 
The  wasting  age  ere  life  hath  garnered  youth, 

No  single  soul  hath  done  this;  each  and  all 

We  add  a  pebble  to  a  mighty  wall 
That  shuts  this  world  from  freedom  and  God's  truth, 


POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Race 

This  mighty  dream  of  the  race ! 

When,  0  when  will  it  die? 
\ATien  the  magic  of  being  bums  from  the  blood, 

When  the  violet  fades  from  the  sky, 
"WTien  the  mother  turns  from  her  child, 

When  the  son  his  father  spurns: — 
And  the  blood  of  the  mightiest  race  on  earth 

To  bloodless  water  turns. 


The  Answer 

They  whisper  that  you  are  dying. 

Mother  of  mine  and  me : 
Like  a  sick  old  eagle  crying 

Out  of  the  northern  sea : 

But  we  answer,  mother,  0  mother. 

Back  to  thy  breast  we  come, 
We  of  thy  breed  and  seed  and  none  other 

From  the  beat  of  the  alien  drum. 

Loud  was  the  new  world  song 

That  wooed  and  beckoned  and  won ; 

Long  was  the  day,  and  long 
The  roads  of  water  and  sun ; 

But  after  the  alien  dream. 

After  the  alien  tongue ; — 
Sweet  to  creep  to  the  true,  to  the  old. 

To  the  love  that  ever  is  young. 


ENGLAND  297 


Ejiglcmd 

This  poem  was  adapted  to  music  and  sung  at  the  Coronation 
Bazaar  as  a  greeting  to  the  Queen  as  she  entered. 

England,  England,  England, 

Girdled  by  ocean  and  skies. 
And  the  power  of  a  world  and  the  heart  of  a  race. 

And  a  hope  that  never  dies. 

England,  England,  England, 

Wherever  a  true  heart  beats, 
Wherever  the  armies  of  commerce  flow. 
Wherever  the  bugles  of  conquest  blow. 
Wherever  the  glories  of  liberty  grow, 

'Tis  the  name  that  the  world  repeats. 

And  ye,  who  dwell  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  century-sculptured  piles. 
Where  sleep  our  century-honored  dead. 
While  the  great  world  thunders  overhead. 

And  far  out,  miles  on  miles. 
Beyond  the  throb  of  the  mighty  town 

The  blue  Thames  dimples  and  smiles ; — 
Not  yours  alone  the  glory  of  old 

Of  the  splendid  thousand  years 
Of  Britain's  might  and  Britain's  right 

And  the  brunt  of  British  spears;  — 
Not  yours  alone,  for  the  great  world  roiind, 

Eeady  to  dare  and  do, 
Scot  and  Celt  and  Norman  and  Dane, 
With  the  Northman's  sinew  and  heart  and  brain. 
And  the  Northman's  courage  for  blessing  or  bane. 

Are  England's  heroes  too. 


298  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

North  and  south  and  east  and  west, 

Wherever  their  triumphs  be, 
Their  glory  goes  home  to  the  ocean-girt  Isle, 
Where  the  heather  blooms  and  the  roses  smile. 

With  the  green  Isle  under  her  lee. 
And  if  ever  the  smoke  of  an  alien  gun 

Should  threaten  her  iron  repose. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  world. 

Face  to  face  with  her  foes, 
Scot  and  Celt  and  Saxon  are  one 

Where  the  glory  of  England  goes. 

And  we  of  the  newer  and  vaster  West, 

Where  the  great  war-banners  are  furled, 
And  commerce  hurries  her  teeming  hosts. 
And  the  cannon  are  silent  along  our  coasts; 
Saxon  and  Gaul,  Canadians  claim 
A  part  in  the  glory  and  pride  and  aim 
Of  the  Empire  that  girdles  the  world. 

Yea,  England,  England,  England, 

Wherever  the  daring  heart 
By  arctic  floe  or  torrid  sand 

Thy  heroes  play  their  part ; — 
For  as  long  as  conquest  holds  the  earth. 

Or  commerce  sweeps  the  sea, 
By  orient  jungle  or  western  plain 

Will  the  Saxon  spirit  be; 
And  whatever  the  people  that  dwell  beneath. 

Or  whatever  the  alien  tongue. 
Over  the  freedom  and  peace  of  the  world 

Is  the  flag  of  England  flung. 

Till  the  last  great  freedom  is  found, 
^d  the  last  great  truth  be  taught^ 


THE    WORLD-MOTHER  299 

Till  the  last  great  deed  be  done, 
And  the  last  great  battle  is  fought; 
Till  the  last  great  fighter  is  slain  in  the  last  great 
fight. 

And  the  war-wolf  is  dead  in  his  den, 
England,  breeder  of  hope  and  valor  and  might, 

Iron  mother  of  men. 

Yea,  England,  England,  England, 

Till  honor  and  valor  are  dead. 
Till  the  world's  great  cannons  rust. 
Till  the  world's  great  hopes  are  dust. 

Till  faith  and  freedom  be  fled ; 
Till  wisdom  and  justice  have  passed 

To  sleep  with  those  who  sleep  in  the  many 
chambered  vast, 
Till  glory  and  knowledge  are  charnelled,  dust  in 
dust; 

To  all  that  is  best  in  the  world's  unrest 
In  heart  and  mind  you  are  wed : — 
While  out  from  the  Indian  jungle. 
To  the  far  Canadian  snows. 
Over  the  east  and  over  the  west, — 
Over  the  worst  and  over  the  best. 
The  flag  of  the  world  to  its  winds  unfurled. 
The  blood-red  ensign  blows. 


The  World-Mother 

(Scotland) 

By  crag  and  lonely  moor  she  stands, 

This  mother  of  half  a  world's  great  men. 

And  kens  them  far  by  sea-wracked  lands. 
Or  orient  jungle  or  western  fen. 


300  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  far  out  'mid  the  mad  turmoil. 

Or  where  the  desert-places  keep 
Their  lonely  hush,  her  children  toil, 

Or  wrapt  in  wide-world  honor  sleep. 

By  Egypt's  sands  or  western  wave, 

She  kens  her  latest  heroes  rest, 
"With  Scotland's  honor  o'er  each  grave, 

And  Britain's  flag  above  each  breast. 

And  some  at  home. — Her  mother  love 

Keeps  crooning  windsongs  o'er  their  graves, 

'V\niere  Arthur's  castle  looms  above, 
Or  Strathy  storms  or  Solway  raves. 

Or  Lomond  unto  Nevis  bends 
In  olden  love  of  clouds  and  dew ; 

Where  Trosach  unto  Stirling  sends 
Greetings  that  build  the  years  anew. 

Out  where  her  miles  of  heather  sweep. 
Her  dust  of  legend  in  her  breast, 

'Neath  aged  Dryburgh's  aisle  and  keep. 
Her  Wizard  Walter  takes  his  rest. 

And  her  loved  ploughman,  he  of  Ayr, 
More  loved  than  any  singer  loved 

By  heart  of  man  amid  those  rare. 

High  souls  the  world  hath  tried  and  proved. 

Whose  songs  are  first  to  heart  and  tongue. 
Wherever  Scotsmen  greet  together. 

And,  far-out  alien  scenes  among, 

Go  mad  at  the  glint  of  a  sprig  of  heather. 


THE    WORLD-MOTHER  301 

And  he,  her  latest  wayward  child. 

Her  Louis  of  the  magic  pen, 
Who  sleeps  by  tropic  crater  piled, 

Far,  far,  alas,  from  misted  glen; 

Who  loved  her,  knew  her,  drew  her  so. 
Beyond  all  common  poet's  whim; — 

In  dreams  the  whaups  are  calling  low. 
In  sooth  her  heart  is  woe  for  him. 

And  they,  her  warriors,  greater  none 
E'er  drew  the  blade  of  daring  forth ; 

Her  Colin*  under  Indian  sun. 

Her  Donaldf  of  the  fighting  North. 

Or  he,  h^  greatest  hero,  he, 
Who  sleeps  somewhere  by  Nilus'  sands. 

Grave  Gordon,  mightiest  of  those  free, 
Great  captains  of  her  fighting  bands. 

Yea,  these  and  myriad  myriads  more, 
Who  stormed  the  fort  or  ploughed  the  main. 

To  free  the  wave  or  win  the  shore. 
She  calls  in  vain,  she  calls  in  vain. 

Brave  sons  of  her,  far  severed  wide 

By  purpling  peak  or  reeling  foam, 
From  western  ridge  or  orient  side 

She  calls  them  home,  she  calls  them  home. 

And  far,  from  east  to  western  sea. 

The  answering  word  comes  back  to  her, 

*  Colin  Campbell,  Hero  of  Lucknow. 

tSir  Donald   Mackay,    Ist  Lord   Reay,  whose  Mackay  Dutch 
Regiment  was  famous  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 


302  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

"  Our  hands  were  slack,  our  hopes  were  free. 
We  answered  to  the  blood  astir; 

"  The  life  by  Kelpie  loch  was  dull, 

The  homeward,  slothful  work  was  done. 
We'  followed  wiiere  the  world  was  full, 
To  dree  the  weird  our  fates  had  spun. 

"  We  built  the  brig,  we  reared  the  town, 

We  spanned  the  earth  with  lightning  gleam. 
We  ploughed,  we  fought,  'mid  smile  and  frown, 
Wiiere  all  the  world's  four  comers  teem. 

"But  under  all  the  surge  of  life. 
The  mad  race-fight  for  mastery, 
Though  foremost  in  the  surgent  strife, 

Our  hearts  went  back,  went  back  to  thee." 

For  the  Scotsman's  speech  is  wise  and  slow, 
And  the  Scotsman's  thought  it  is  hard  to  ken, 

But  through  all  the  yearnings  of  men  that  go. 
His  heart  is  the  heart  of  the  northern  glen. 

His  song  is  the  song  of  the  windy  moor. 

And  the  humming  pipes  of  the  squirling  din; 

And  his  love  is  the  love  of  the  shieling  door. 
And  the  smell  of  the  smoking  peat  within. 

And  nohap  how  much  of  the  alien  blood 

Is  crossed  with  the  strain  that  holds  him  fast, 

'Mid  the  world's  great  ill  and  the  world's  great 
good. 
He  yearns  to  the  Mother  of  men  at  last. 


THE  LAZARUS  OF  EMPIRE  303 

For  there  is  something  strong  and  something  true 
In  the  wind  where  the  sprig  of  heather  is  blown ; 

And  something  great  in  the  blood  so  blue, 
That  makes  him  stand  like  a  man  alone. 

Yea,  give  him  the  road  and  loose  him  free. 
He  sets  his  teeth  to  the  fiercest  blast, 

For  there's  never  a  toil  in  a  far  countrie. 
But  a  Scotsman  tackles  it  hard  and  fast. 

He  builds  their  commerce,  he  sings  their  songs. 
He  weaves  their  creeds  with  an  iron  twist. 

And  making  of  laws  or  righting  of  wrongs. 
He  grinds  it  all  as  the  Scotsman's  grist. 


Yea,  there  by  crag  and  moor  she  stands. 
This  mother  of  half  a  world's  great  men, 

And  out  of  the  heart  of  her  haunted  lands 
She  calls  her  children  home  again. 

And  over  the  glens  and  the  wild  sea  floors 
She  peers  so  still  as  she  counts  her  cost. 

With  the  whaups  low  calling  over  the  moors, 
"  Woe,  woe,  for  the  great  ones  she  hath  lost." 


The  Lazarus  of  Empire* 

The  Celt,  he  is  proud  in  his  protest. 
The  Scot,  he  is  calm  in  his  place. 

For  each  has  a  word  in  the  ruling  and  doom 
Of  the  empire  that  honors  his  race : 

*  Written  before  the  Boer  War. 


304  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  the  Englishman,  dogged  and  grim. 

Looks  the  world  in  the  face  as  he  goes, 
And  he  holds  a  proud  lip,  for  he  sails  his  own 
ship, 

And  he  cares  not  for  rivals  nor  foes; 
But  lowest  and  last,  with  his  areas  vast, 

And  horizon  so  servile  and  tame. 
Sits  the  poor  beggar  Colonial 

Who  feeds  on  the  crumbs  of  her  fame. 

He  knows  no  place  in  her  councils. 

He  holds  no  part  in  the  word 
That  girdles  the  world  with  its  thunders 

When  the  fiat  of  Britain  is  heard; 
He  beats  no  drums  to  her  battles. 

He  gives  no  triumphs  her  name. 
But  lowest  and  last,  with  his  areas  vast. 

He  feeds  on  the  crumbs  of  her  fame. 

How  long,  0  how  long,  the  dishonor. 

The  servile  and  suppliant  place? 
Are  we  Britons  who  batten  upon  her. 

Or  degenerate  sons  of  the  race? 
It  is  souls  that  make  nations,  not  numbers. 

As  our  forefathers  proved  in  the  past. 
Let  us  take  up  the  burden  of  empire, 

Or  nail  our  own  flag  to  the  mast. 
Doth  she  care  for  us,  value  us,  want  us, 

Or  are  we  but  pawns  in  the  game; 
Where  lowest  and  last,  with  our  areas  vast. 

We  feed  on  the  crumbs  of  her  fame  ? 


SHOW  THE    WAY,  ENGLAND  305 


Show  the  Way,  England  * 

Show  the  way,  England ! 
We  are  your  children. 
Pass  us  not  by; — 
Full  five  million 
Children  of  Canada 
True  as  of  yore : — 
Blood  of  your  blood  and 
Core  of  your  core ; — 
Speak  not  the  treason. 
Write  not  the  lie. 
Bred  of  the  blood  of  you, 
We  are  not  alien. 
Pass  us  not  by. 

Show  the  way,  England ! 
Not  in  your  ignorance. 
Passing  your  children 
Over  in  silence. 
Oblivion  hurled; — 
Buying  the  traitor. 
Lauding  the  alien. 
Will  you  build  Empire, 
Wide  as  the  world; — 
But  by  showing  your 
Children  you  love  them, 
Know  them  as  kindred. 
Blood  of  the  one  blood, 
Where  the  wide  wheelings 
Of  Empire  are  whirled. 

•Written  in  answer  to  a  poem,  "Show  the  Way,  Canada,"  printed  in  th« 
Lonchnt  Spectator, 


306.         POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Show  the  way,  England ! 
We  will  follow  you. 
We,  whose  fathers  were 
Victors  with  Wellington, 
Masters  with  Nelson, 
Under  the  old  flag 
That  flapped  at  the  Nile; 
We  late  children 
Of  those  intrepid. 
Who,  scaling  the  vast-heights. 
Won  you,  with  Wolfe, 
Canada's  glorious 
Mile  upon  mile. 

They,  too,  our  brothers. 
Loyal  Canadian, 
Valorous,  chivalrous, 
Sons  of  Montcalm ; — 
They  are  not  alien, 
Speak  not  the  lie. 
They,  too,  for  Britain 
Have  died  and  will  die; — 
They  are  not  alien. 
Helot,  out-cast. 
But  blood  of  the  old  blood, 
Norman  of  William, 
Victors  at  Hastings, 
Builders  of  England, 
Heirs  of  your  wonderful. 

Glorious  past. 
Ocean  or  land,  for  you 
They,  too,  will  stand  for  you — 
Show  the  way,  England  I 


SHOIV  THE    WAY,  ENGLAND  307 

Show  the  way,  England ! 
Forward  to  justice. 
Freedom  and  right. 
Onward  to  glory  and 
"Wisdom's  increase. 
We  will  follow  you. 
Sons  of  the  might  of  you, 
Smokeward  to  battle 
Or  sunward  to  peace. 

Show  the  way,  England ! 
Not  in  the  bright  hour. 
But  in  the  dark  hour, 
When  the  world  threatens. 
We  are  your  sons ; — 
Not  for  the  might  of  you, 
Shelter  and  right  of  you. 
Not  for  the  paid-coin. 
Not  for  your  guns; — 
But  that  we  love  you. 
Suckled  at  breast  of  you. 
You  are  our  Mother ! 
We  are  your  sons  I 

Show  the  way,  England  I 
And  in  the  fated 
Din  of  the  battle. 
Stand  you  alone; 
Loyal  Canadian, 
Sons  of  the  sons  of  you, 
Back  of  the  guns  of  you. 
Bone  of  your  bone; — 
We  will  stand  four-square. 


SO 


308  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Eock  of  the  rock  of  you, 
Eibs  of  the  steel  of  you ; — 
Darkness  or  light, 
Let  the  world  thunder;^ 
Ere  you  go  under. 
We  will  follow  you. 
Might  of  your  might  I 

Not  of  the  alien, 
We  of  old  Scotland, 
We  of  old  England, 
We  of  old  Ireland, 
We  of  old  Normandy, 
We  are  your  sons; — 
We  are  Canadian, 
Helot  to  no  one. 
Freedom  enfranchised 
Heirs  of  this  strand; — 
We  of  old  England, 
We  of  old  Ireland, 
We  of  old  Scotland, 
We  of  old  Normandy — 
Britons,  the  sons  of  you. 
Brand  of  your  brand. 

Show  the  way,  England  I 
We  are  your  children. 
In  peace  or  in  battle 
To  conquer  or  die; — 
We  are  not  alien. 
Speak  not  the  insult, 
Write  not  the  lie ; — 
We  whose  fathers  were 
Thanes  with  Great  Alfred, 


SHOW  THE    WAY,   ENGLAND  309 

Loyal  at  Euimymeade, 
Norman  at  Hastings, 
Or  Scotch  at  Lucknow; — 
Speak  not  the  treason, 
Write  not  the  lie. 
Blood  of  the  blood  of  you 
Leaps  in  reply ; — 
Only  be  true  to  us. 
Open  your  heart  to  us. 
Lead  you  to  danger. 
To  glory  or  night; — 
We  will  follow  you. 
Blood  of  the  blood  of  you. 
Might  of  your  might ! — 
Show  the  way,  England ! 

Show  the  way,  England  I 
Let  that  grim  master 
Of  earth's  dread  disaster, 
Let  the  war  shadow 
But  darken  your  sun : — 
Trust  your  child,  Canada, 
She  will  be  with  you. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder. 
Gun  to  your  gun: — 
She  will  reply  with  you. 
Fight  for  you. 
Die  with  you. 
So  wide  to  the  world. 
Be  the  old  flag  unfurled! 
Show  the  way,  England  I 


310  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Children 

Out  of  the  vnsts  of  the  world, 
From  the  beat  of  the  alien  drum, 

Back  from  the  wanderings  far, 
Do  the  ancient  children  come. 

Back  from  the  isles  of  the  east. 

Back  from  the  sunset  wall : 
Calling  Mother,  soul  of  our  soul. 

Do  the  ancient  children  call. 

Back  from  the  visions  of  toiling, 
Out  from  the  dreams  of  gold, 

From  the  endless  striving  and  yearning 
The  children  return  to  the  fold. 

Back  from  the  alien  roads. 

Of  ignis  fatuus  gleam. 
Back  to  the  mother,  back  to  the  home. 

Do  the  hearts  of  the  children  dream. 

There  is  cry  that  the  race  is  sinking. 

Breed  of  the  Albion  isle. 
That  the  strong  arm  sinks,  that  the  sinew 
shrinks. 

And  the  lie  and  the  cheat  beguile ; 

But  we  are  your  children.  Mother, 

We  at  your  breasts  have  fed. 
We  will  not  leave  you,  life  of  our  life. 

Dead  of  our  olden  dead. 


THE  CHILDREN  311 

Gather,  as  war  clouds  gather. 

Hordes  of  the  world  afar, 
We  are  the  deathless  sons  of  the  race, 

Stars  of  the  olden  star. 

Sons  of  the  ancient  sunrise. 

Children  of  granite  and  dew: 
We  yet  will  drink  of  the  dreams  on  your 
brink. 

Hills  of  the  heather  blue. 

Eeckon  thy  dead,  0  Albion. 

Eeckon  thy  latest  blood. 
Sons  of  the  strong,  where  the  sunlight  long 

Floods  the  round  world  in  its  flood: 

Eeckon  on  us,  0  Albion, 

Let  the  world's  jackals  but  spring. 

We  will  be  yours  while  earth  endures. 
While  earth  and  the  earth-roots  cling. 

Strong  is  the  flag,  0  Children, 

Whereunder  your  breed  are  bom. 
Strong  is  the  love  of  the  dwelling-place. 

And  sweet  is  the  homelight's  morn : 

But  stronger  far  yet  is  the  race-tie. 
The  kinships  that  kindle  and  bind, 

And  evermore  true  to  the  breed  and  the  thew 
Are  the  sons  of  the  world-old  kind. 

Yea,  back  to  the  ancient  mother 

The  earth-wide  children  yearn. 
Who  fared  to  achieve,  to  dream,  to  glean, 

To  wrestle,  to  build,  to  learn. 


312  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  as  ashes  the  vast  achievement. 
And  weary  the  hearts  that  pray, 

When  the  old  blood  dreams  and  the  old  love 
gleams 
In  the  hearts  of  the  Far-away. 

Back  *mid  the  world's  wide  seething. 

Its  witch-pot  brew  that  boils : 
Back  from  the  bu3dng  and  selling  of  earth 

From  the  chaos  of  battles  and  toils. 

The  hearts  of  the  far-swept  children 

To  the  ancient  mother  turn. 
When  the  day  breaks,  when  the  hour  comes, 

The  world  will  waken  and  leam. 

Not  the  one  flag,  not  the  two  flags, 
But  the  blood  that  wakens  and  stirs: 

The  world  may  claim  them,  the  world  may 
name  them. 
But  the  hearts  of  the  race  are  Hers. 


Briton  to  Briton :  An  Appeal 

We  have  come  to  the  ways,  0  Brothers, 
To  the  grim  considering  place; 

And  is  it  to  be  together. 

Or  chaos,  and  end  of  the  race? 

We  of  the  ancient  people. 

We  of  the  lion  line; 
Will  a  shoulder  of  earthhills  hold  us  apart. 

Or  billowy  leagues  of  brine? 


BRITON  TO  BRITON:  AN  APPEAL  313 

We  of  the  speech  of  Shakespeare, 

We  of  that  breed  of  men 
Who  of  old  in  earth's  stern  battles 

Conquered  as  one  to  ten. 

Is  our  world-wide  task  eternal  ? 

Ever  new  lands  to  win? 
Is  it  trade  forever  and  ever, 

And  never  a  thought  of  kin? 

Lands  to  northward  and  southward, 

Continents  east  and  west, 
Freed  by  our  liberty,  genius. 

Where  alien  peoples  are  blest ! 

Are  we  to  scatter  and  scatter. 

Losing  our  olden  dream ; 
And  all  for  a  curse  of  commerce  and  trade, 

An  ignis  fatutts  gleam ; 

That  men  may  say  the  Briton, 

The  ancient  race  holds  sway? — 
But  who  are  the  rulers  in  truth,  in  right, 

And  who  are  the  conquered,  pray  ? 

The  vote  of  the  one  man  conquers 

Under  this  freedom  of  ours ; 
And  north  and  south,  and  east  and  west, 

Slowly  dwindle  our  powers. 

Lost  to  our  ancient  manhood. 

The  freedom  our  fathers  had  won; 

Conquered  slow  by  the  alien  vote. 
Under  an  alien  sun. 


314  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Is  it  evermore  business,  business, 

On  to  the  end  of  time? 
Are  the  markets  our  only  Empire  bonds? 

Is  sentiment  worse  than  a  crime? 

Is  the  freedom,  the  faith  of  Britain, 

To  be  sold  and  bartered  away. 
That  our  rulers  may  hold  a  spectre  of  power 

Over  millions  of  acres  of  clay? 

Are  the  centuried  dreams  of  a  people, 
Co-heirs  of  high  dreaming  and  worth. 

To  be  crushed  and  stifled  for  harbors 
On  alien  coasts  of  the  earth? 

Will  it  ever  be  business,  business. 

Eternal  markets  to  win; 
Trade,  and  its  curse  forever. 

And  never  a  thought  of  kin; 

While  the  sons  of  the  race  are  drifting 

Slowly  and  surely  apart; 
And  the  giant  soul  of  a  people  is  crushed 

In  the  greed  of  the  world's  wide  mart? 

Canada* 

Are  there  none  to  speak  and  save? 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
From  western  peak  to  eastern  wave? 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
,  Are  there  none  to  lift  and  save. 
Must  you  sink  in  helot  grave. 
Crushed  in  gyve  of  thief  and  knave? 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 

•  Written  at  a  time  when  the  Press  of  both  parties  was  filled  with 
accounts  of  gross  political  corruption. 


CANADA  315 

Are  there  none  to  wake  the  dead, 
0  people  unto  grossness  wed? 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
Must  this  cursed  trade  go  on, 
Franchise  but  a  bartered  pawn, 
Freedom,  thought  and  honor  gone? 
Heaven  strike  or  send  a  holier  dawn 

To  Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 

Must  the  hideous  tale  be  told  ? 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
Men  like  puppets  bought  and  sold, 
Freeman's  rights  for  place  and  gold? 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
Must  this  hideous  lie  go  on? 
Are  we  but  degenerate  spawn 
Of  a  greater  people  gone? 

Canada,  my  shamed,  dishonored  own. 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own, 

Lie  in  the  dust  and  make  your  moan, 

Dishonored  by  those  very  ones 

Who  should  have  been  your  truest  sons, 

Like  ship  on  surfs  that  overwhelm, 

With  some  false  captain  at  the  helm, 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
Creep  in  the  dust  and  make  your  moan ; 
To  childish  superstitions  doomed. 
Or  in  material  greed  entombed, 
Your  people  sleep  through  sordid  years 
Of  modern  doubts  and  deeds  and  fears. 
Lie  in  the  dust  and  make  your  moan ; 

Poor  Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 

0  wherefore  wonder  when  our  life 
Is  all  one  shrunken  party  strife, 


316  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

When  every  question  of  the  hour 
Betrayed  to  greed  of  party  power. 
When  every  voice  for  truth  is  stilled. 
Save  that  which  party  spake  or  willed. 
With  p9,ndering  pulpits,  venial  press, 
God  send  redress,  God  send  redress 
To  this  poor  human  wilderness, 
A  people  for  high  dreamings  meant. 
But  damned  by  too  much  government. 

0  dream  in  vain  your  future  power. 
And  build  in  vain  your  heart's  high  tower ; 

0  Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 
When  you  have  sold  the  olden  truth. 
That  greatness  which  inspired  thy  youth. 
And  bartered  for  a  sordid  gleam 
The  light  of  all  your  highest  dream. 
With  all  the  gross,  material  strife 
Of  godless,  money-hungered  life, 

0  Canada,  my  own,  my  own; 
Your  children,  they  have  dragged  you  down 
And  trampled  all  your  old  renown. 
As  some  base  harlot  of  the  town, 

0  Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 

0  splendid  dream  of  plain  and  lake. 
When  will  you  from  this  curse  awake. 
And  with  new-kindled  honor  take 
Your  place  with  those  who  guide  the  helm 
Of  Britain's  mighty  people  realm? 
When  will  you,  raised  to  that  regard 
Of  self,  above  the  market  yard 
Of  life's  low  levels,  hold  your  share 
In  Britain's  mighty  world-wide  care? 
0  Canada,  my  own,  my  own  I 


VICTORIA  317 

0  wide  thy  lands  and  wide  thy  sky, 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own ! 
But  wider  yet  the  living  lie 
That  we  have  lived,  my  own,  my  own ! 
Let  us  arise  from  our  old  graves 
Of  self  and  ill,  as  o'er  the  waves 
God's  dawn  from  night,  to  that  which  saves, 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own; 
Eise  and  strike  the  shackles  free 
That  bind  us  lip  and  heart  and  knee, 
And  be  what  God  dreamed  we  should  be, 

Canada,  my  own,  my  own. 

Loved  Canada,  my  own  I 

Victoria 

Gubilee  Ode.  A.D.   1897) 

With  thunder  of  cannon  and  far-off  roll  of  drum. 

And  martial  music  blaring  forth  her  glory, 

'Mid  miles  of  thronging  millions  down  each  street 

Where  all  the  earth  is  bound  in  one  heart-heat. 

The  world's  great  Empire's  greatest  Queen  doth  come. 

Borne  on  one  mighty,  rocking,  earthquake  voice 

Wherein  all  peoples  of  wide  earth  rejoice — 

She  comes,  she  comes,  to  beat  of  martial  drums. 

And  pageants  blazoning  England's  ancient  story: 

The  good,  gray  Queen  whose  majesty  and  worth 

Have  lent  their  radiance  to  remotest  earth; 

While  the  splendor  and  might  and  power  of  her  mighty 

empire  bound  her; 
And  the  serried  millions,  mad  with  joy,  are  near  her, 
All  to  love  her,  none  to  fear  her. 
But  nearer  far  than  power,  than  splendor  dearer. 
The  surging  love  of  her  loved  people  round  her. 


318  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

She  comes,  she  comes,  encircled  by  her  people, 
While  praise  to  Heaven  peals  out  from  tower  and 

steeple. 
Into  the  great  cathedral,  hushed  and  dim, 
With  thankful  heart  and  humble,  queenly  head 
Over  the  sleep  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
To  render  up  her  heart's  best  thoughts  to  Him, 
The  King  of  kings — 'mid  hush  of  priestly  tread, 
And  gloried  anthem's  solemn  pealing  hymn. 
The  mighty  millions,  awed,  now  bow  the  head. 
Thank  Heaven  for  her  simple,  noble  life. 
Earth's  queenliest  Empress,  mother,  daughter,  wife  I 
Thank  Heaven  for  all  she  held  her  dearest  own ! 
Forgiveness  for  the  weakness  she  hath  known! 
Blessings  on  her  wise,  old  widowed  head. 
For  what  her  life  is  now,  and  what  her  life  hath  been, 
Noble  mother,  wife  and  Queen ! 

Let  the  mighty  organs  roll,  and  the  mighty  throng 

disperse ! 
She  is  ours,  and  we  are  hers. 
And  both  are  Britain's.     Both  to  Britain's  God 
Lift  up  the  heart-felt  praise  for  the  might  of  splendid 

days, 
For  the  glory  that  hath  been. 

Let  the  cannon  thunder  out,  and  the  miles  of  voices 
shout : — Victoria ! 

Let  the  bells  peal  out  afar,  till  the  rocket  tells  the  star. 

And  the  ocean  shouts  its  paean  to  the  thunder-answer- 
ing bar : 

England's  glory,  Britain's  pride, 

Revered  of  half  a  world  beside, 

0  good,  gray  Queen,  Victoria! 


VICTORIA  319 

Daughter  of  monarchs,  mother  of  kings; 

All  her  sorrows  we  have  shared. 

All  her  triumphs  they  are  ours. 

Kind  Heaven,  that  virtue  still  endowers. 

Be  with  her,  may  her  path  be  flowers; 

Be  with  her,  may  her  days  be  spared ! 

Death  aloof,  with  shadowing  wings. 

Unto  nature's  latest  hours ! 

Daughter  of  monarchs,  mother  of  kings. 

0  good,  gray  Queen,  Victoria! 

Let  all  feuds  of  faction  die. 

Let  all  blaring  party  bugles  cease  to  blow. 

Let  insincere  and  base  detraction  lie. 

With  sore  defeat  and  bitterness,  her  carping  sisters,  low, 

In  this  one  supremest  hour, 

Day  of  Britain's  ancient  power. 

Day  of  all  her  golden  dower. 

Of  victory-towering  centuries,  tower  on  tower  I 

Let  all  hatreds  be  forgot, 

All  bitterness  be  swept  away, 

Eemembering  only  the  glory  of  our  lot 

In  this  century-honoring  day ! 

Celt  and  Scot  and  Saxon,  let  us  only  know, 

A  mighty  Queen  comes  to  her  own  at  last. 

Her  people's  love  and  reverence — as  the  glow 

Of  some  splendid  western  heaven. 

Deepening  into  richer  even. 

Ere  it  purples  to  the  vast. 

Past  the  mailed  gates  of  fears. 

The  hooded  menace  of  the  years, 

Where  rang  the  iron  voices  rolling  on  her  ears. 

Of  royal  dreams  the  requiem  and  pall ; 

And  awful  fates  of  thrones  foredoomed  to  fall ; 


320  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Our  ag^d  Queen,  on  this  glad  day  she  stands. 
Amid  the  throbbings  of  her  land's  great  love. 
Firm  in  her  rule,  her  faith  in  God  above. 
Earth's  golden  keys  of  happiness  on  her  hands. 
0  splendid  life  of  Britain's  splendid  days ! 
0  noble  soul,  aboVe  all  blame  or  praise ! 
0  fame  that  will  outlast  our  little  fame ! 
0  long-enduring  honor  greater  than  time  or  death ! 
0  name  that  will  outlive  even  that  immortal  name, 
England's  more  ancient  glory,  the  great  Elizabeth! 

And  we,  thy  loyal  subjects  far  away. 

In  these  new  lands  that  own  thy  sceptre's  sway. 

Betwixt  thy  Eoyal  Isle  and  far  Cathay — 

Across  the  thunder  of  the  western  foam, 

0  good,  gray  Queen,  our  hearts  go  home,  go  home. 

To  thine  and  thee ! 

We  are  thine  own  while  empires  rise  and  wane. 

We  are  thine  own  for  blessing  or  for  bane. 

And,  come  the  shock  of  thundering  war  again. 

For  death  or  victory! 

Not  that  we  hate  our  brothers  to  the  south. 
They  are  our  fellows  in  the  speech  of  mouth. 
They  are  our  wedded  kindred,  our  own  blood. 
The  same  world-evils  we  and  they  withstood. 
Our  aims  are  theirs,  one  common  future  good — 
Not  that  we  hate  them,  but  that  there  doth  lie 
Within  our  hearts  a  golden  fealty 
To  Britain,  Britain,  Britain,  till  the  world  doth  die. 

And  him  we  send  thee  as  our  greatest  son. 
The  people's  choice,  to  whose  firm  hand  is  given 
The  welfare  of  our  country  under  heaven; 
No  truer  son  hast  thou  in  all  thy  coasts. 


VICTORIA  821 

No  wiser,  kindlier,  stronger,  Britain  boasts. 
Our  knightly  leader,  Norman  in  his  blood, 
But  truest  Briton  in  heart  and  speech  and  mind. 
Beloved  well  of  all  his  fellow-kind. 
In  statesmanship  our  nation's  highest  mood. 
Our  silver-tongued  and  golden-hearted  one. 
In  every  inch  and  every  thought  a  man. 
Our  noblest  type,  ideal  Canadian ! 
Receive  him,  'mid  those,  greatest,  thou  dost  own. 
Thy  mighty  empire-builders,  bastioning  round  thy 
throne. 

0  England's  latest,  greatest  Queen, 

Greatness  more  great  than  all  her  greatness  that  hath 

been. 
Under  thy  sceptre  the  outmost  continents  hang. 
And  trackless  oceans  thunder  out  their  surges. 
These  are  thy  realms.     Never  in  earth's  old  story 
Hath  Queen  of  earthly  realm  owned  such  resplendent 

glory, 
Not  golden  Homer  such  wondrous  kingdoms  sang ; 
Eound  earth's  wide  girdle  thy  mighty  empire  verges, 
Out-splendoring  all  prophecy  of  olden  days. 

Thou  latest  and  greatest  on  that  throne  whose  base 

Withstood  the  shock  of  centuries,  still  withstands 

The  lowering  hate  of  Europe's  iron  bands. 

In  thy  true  keeping  shall  that  sceptre  be 

A  golden  wand  of  happiness  to  the  free 

Who  call  thee  Queen  from  outmost  sea  to  sea. 

That  throne  to  them  a  mighty  lighthouse  tower, 

A  truth-compelling  majesty  of  light 

Blinding  the  mists  of  ignorance  and  night, 

Where  round  its  base  throughout  the  centuries'  flight 

Thunder  in  vain  earth's  hosts  upon  its  iron  power. 


322  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  Lament  for  the  Chief 

(On  the  late  Duke  of  Argyll) 

0  HONE  a  rie !    0  hone  a  rie  I 

Alas,  great  Cailen  lieth  now 

Like  stricken  pine  in  Inverie ! 

The  galley  waits  by  lone  Loehow 

To  bear  where  Kilmun's  sleep  beguiles 

The  mighty  chieftain  of  the  isles. 

He  sleeps  where  glen  and  mountain  blur. 
And  Caledonia  rocks  her  pine ; 
Who,  long  and  faithful,  leal  to  her. 
Great  daughter  of  his  royal  line, 
And  true  to  Empire's  noblest  cause. 
Moulded  her  wisdom  in  her  laws. 

And  o'er  the  doorways  of  his  rest 
The  sign  of  lineal  glory  stands. 
The  galley  of  his  ancient  West, 
To  bear  his  soul  to  loftier  lands, 
Those  isles  of  Scotland's  mighty  soul 
And  splendors  of  her  spirit's  goal. 

There  he  will  sleep  in  lordly  dream 
Until  the  last  dread  pibroch  wakes 
The  centuried  hush  of  glen  and  stream. 
And  far  by  misted  hills  and  lakes. 
Each  plaided  warrior  grimly  stands 
At  God's  dread  gathering  of  the  clans. 


THE  LAMENT  FOR   THE   CHIEF  323 

There  let  him  dream,  as  through  his  sleep. 

Like  mists  that  sweep  by  Ben  Lui, 

Or  surge  of  Jura's  mighty  deep. 

The  armies  of  the  years  go  by. 

In  myriad  visions  of  that  vast 

Of  Scotland's  splendor,  Scotland's  past. 

Old  sounds  of  far-heard  battle  call. 
Or  mountain-misted  shieling  song. 
Or  warder's  call  from  castle  wall 
Of  right's  high  challenge  unto  wrong; 
Or  that  old  fealty,  man  to  man. 
Of  feudal  chief  and  faithful  clan. 

Dreams  he  once  more  the  mighty  years 
Of  mailed  targe  and  ringing  shield, 
Of  Scotland's  sorrow,  Scotland's  tears. 
For  those  of  fatal  Flodden's  field; 
When  'mid  mad  wreck  of  Lord  and  Crown 
All  else  save  honor  thundered  down. 

Or  those  old  struggles  for  the  right, 
*Mid  conquering  truth  and  ancient  wrong. 
When  Scotland,  in  her  iron  might. 
Led  forth  her  bannered  hosts  along. 
In  that  unconquered  spirit,  stern. 
Of  Douglas,  Bruce  and  Bannockburn. 

0  hone  a  rie !    0  hone  a  rie ! 

Like  mountain  mist  or  drifted  snow. 

Through  years  of  Scotland's  dream  and 

dree. 
The  glories  of  her  great  dead  go : — 
And  grief's  sad  pibroch  moans  full  sore 
The  memories  of  McCailen  More. 
21 


324  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Aye,  stilled  for  aye  the  mighty  brain, 
^d  hushed  for  aye  the  magic  tongue, 
Whose  lofty  accents  ne'er  again 
Will  thrill  Westminster's  Halls  among; 
When,  first  of  Britain's  barons,  he 
Spoke  brave  for  truth  and  liberty. 

0  hone  a  rie !    0  hone  a  rie ! 

No  more  the  chieftain's  eye  shall  glow, 

Hushed  is  his  spirifs  minstrelsy; 

The  mighty  fighter  lieth  low. 

Who  served  his  country,  served  his  clan. 

And  fought  to  free  his  brother  man. 

And  we  his  kinsmen  severed  wide. 
Proud  heirs  of  mighty  O'Duin's  fame. 
By  every  zone  and  wind  and  tide. 
Who  bear  the  ancient,  storied  name ; 
In  heart  respond  to  Argyll's  woe 
For  lofty  Cailen  lying  low. 

We,  children  of  the  royal  house, 
True  to  the  blood  whate'er  befall. 
In  lineal  dreams  our  hearts  arouse, 
Eesponsive  to  that  ancient  call. 
By  glen  and  misted  mountain  brow, — 
Of  Campbell ;  and  the  dread  Lochow ! 


MAFEKING  326 


Mafeking 

Mafeking,  little  Mafeking,  the  pride  of  the  world  goes 
down. 

But  thine  the  splendor  of  days  to  come,  and  honor  of 
great  renown : 

Little  city  of  Afric  wilds,  bleak  by  thine  Afric  streams. 

Unknown  yesterday,  to-day  thou  art  great  'mid  the 
world's  great  dreams. 

Many  a  mighty  onslaught,  many  a  victor's  sweep 

Of  serried  charge  on  chivalrous  charge  up  some  world- 
storied  steep — 

Many  a  splendid  victory,  great  in  the  world's  renown ; 

But  never  a  nobler,  truer  courage  than  held  thee,  little 
townl 

Not  thine  the  splendid  onslaught,  the  victory  sudden 

won; 
The  deed  of  valor  done  in  a  night,  or  under  one  glorious 

sun; 
But  thine  the  long,  long  waiting,  the  dying  by  slow 

degrees. 
The  sad,  slow-eating  horror  of  hunger  and  dread  disease ; 
While  the   foe  outside  lay  waiting,   devils   in  men's 

disguise. 
With  murderous  hell   of  shot  and  shell,   'neath   the 

murderous  Afric  skies; 
Many  a  deed  of  heroes,  high  in  the  world  may  shine. 
But  never  a  deed,  0  Mafeking,  truer  and  greater  than 

thine ! 

Town  of  thy  towns,  0  Britain,  which  is  thy  greatest? 

Say! 
Ib  it  thy  great,  grim  London,  gloried  and  storied  and 

grey? 


326  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Is  it  thy  mighty  seaport,  crown  of  thy  wealth's  great 

crown. 
Whence  unto  the  many  ports  of  the  world  thy  myriad 

ships  go  down? 
Is  it  thy  northern  Athens,  city  of  chivalrous  fame. 
With  her  great  learned  dead,  her  sainted  tombs,  her 

monarchs  of  deathless  name? 
Are  these  thy  glory,   0  Britain?     Thy  splendors  of 

peace  are  these — 
]\Iarts  of  thy  wonderful  wealth  of  the  world,  thou  mis- 
tress of  widespread  seas ! 
But  nearer  than  these  and  dearer  to  the  heart   of   the 

Empire's  pride 
Is  the  little  town  of  the  splendid  few  where  Britons  for 

Britain  died — 
Yea,  greater  by  far  and  higher,  for  story  and  glory  to 

come, 
When  the  mighty  names  of  the  world  are  writ  in  the 

books  of  the  thunder  of  drum. 

Dust,  in  thy  great  world  city,  the  dead  of  thy  great  past 

sleep : 
Storied  and  gloried  in  marble  column,  and  honored  of 

those  who  weep, 
Names  of  a  centuried  honor,  lives  of  a  world's  renown, 
But  none  of  them  greater  or  truer  than  those  who  sleep 

in  thy  little  town ! 
Men  and  women  and  children,  England,  these  were 

thine ; 
Hearts  that  knew  one  duty,  to  die  but  never  repine ! 
To  fight  and  to  suffer  for  England,  for  the  glory  of 

England's  name ! 
To  fight  and  suffer  and  struggle,  but  never  that  one 

great  shame. 
To  yield  old  England's  honor  unto  the  world's  wide 
blame ! 


MAFEKING  327 

Weeks,  long  weeks  of  waiting,  watching  for  succor  to 

come; 
To  burrow  in  earth  like  rabbits,  to  wake  to  the  thunder 

of  drum; 
Through  months,  long  months,   life-eating  nights  of 

fever  and  pain. 
Days   of   watching   and   hunger   borne   with   a   brave 

disdain ; 
Bodies  disease-racked,  deathward,  lips  firm,  fixed  to  the 

foe. 
To   send   to   the   traitor's   "  Surrender "   the   Briton's 

thundering  "  No !" 
To  answer  them  back  with  their  cannon  to  the  last  gun's 

last  grim  round, 
As  Britain  has  answered  ever,  afloat  or  greatly  aground. 
These  be  thy  soldiers,  0    England  !     Care    for    them, 

honor  them,  thine! 
Greater  than  bulwarks  of  granite  or  iron,  thy  bulwarks 

from  brine  to  brine ! 

Months  that  eked  out  slowly,  as  long-drawn  miseries 

go; 
Inside  hunger  and  care  and  pain,  outside  the  angering 

foe; 
With  grim  death  treading  daily  the  streets  of  the  little 

town. 
Where    gaunt-eyed    sorrow    in    woman's    guise    went 

patiently  up  and  down. 
While  near  in  the  woman's  laager  the  children's  grave- 
yard grew. 
Headstone  after  headstone,  till  the  toddling  feet  were 

few; 
And  hope  deferred  grew  paler,  as  under  the  Afric  sky, 
Moment    by    moment,    as    drowning    men    sink,    they 

watched  their  loved  ones  die. 


328  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

This  for  thine  honor,  0  England;  and  may  thy  heroes 

be  few 
To  suffer  the  sorrows  for  thy  great  sake  thy  heroes  of 

Mafeking  knew! 

Bravely,  as  brave  nlen  ever,  they  bore  up  day  by  day, 

Toiling  to  hold  the  cit/s  might  and  the  evil  foe  at  bay, 

With  the  minute  gun  at  morning  their  sole,  dread  matin 
bell. 

And  the  hideous  hum  of  the  maiming  shot  their  only 
funeral  knell; 

Till  after  months  of  slaughter,  and  famine,  hunger  and 
pain. 

There  broke  on  their  ears  the  ringing  shout  of  British 
cheers  again; 

When  bursting  through  the  circling  lines  in  the  early 
morning's  glow. 

They  beat  the  grim  leaguerer  back  in  defeat  and  con- 
quered the  conquering  foe. 

Never  such  mad,  wild  cheering  had  the  leaguered  city 

known; 
Never  such  laughing  and  shaking  of  hands  in  the  streets 

of  the  little  town; 
Never  such  solemn  prayers  to  God  as  rose  to  Heaven 

that  day 
From  lips  of  men  who  pray  and  fight  as  Britons  fight 

and  pray. 
These  be  thy  heroes,  0  England,  these  be  thy  brave 

sons,  these, 
Greater  than  bulwarks  of  granite  or  iron,  thou  mistress 

of  world-wide  seas; 
These  be  thy  sons  who  come  at  thy  call  where  the  ends 

of  the  wide  earth  meet; 
These  be  thy  sons  to  conquer  and  save,  but  never  to 

know  defeat. 


OUR  BIT  OF  "  THE   THIN  RED  LINE        329 

Town  of  thy  towns,  0  Britain,  which  is  thy  greatest? 

Say! 
Is  it  thy  great,  grim  London,  gloried  and  storied  and 

grey? 
Is  it  thy  mighty  seaport,  crown  of  thy  wealth's  great 

crown. 
Whence  unto  the  many  ports  of  the  world  thy  myriad 

ships  go  down? 
Is  it  thy  northern  Athens,  city  of  chivalrous  fame. 
With  her  great  learned  dead,  her  sainted  tombs,  her 

monarchs  of  deathless  name? 
Are  these  thy  glory,   0   Britain?     Thy  splendors  of 

peace  are  these — 
Marts  of  thy  wonderful  wealth  of  the  world,  thou  mis- 
tress of  widespread  seas ! 
But  nearer  than  these  and  dearer  to  the  heart  of  the 

Empire's  pride 
Is  the  little  town  of  the  splendid  few  where  Britons  for 

Britain  died — 
Yea,  greater  by  far  and  higher,  for  story  and  glory  to 

come. 
When  the  mighty  names  of  the  world  are  writ  in  the 

books  of  the  thunder  of  drum. 


Our  Bit  of  "The  Thin  Red  Line" 

They  have  gone  with  a  people's  hopes  and 
prayers. 

Out  over  the  eastern  brine. 
To  strike  for  the  might  of  Britain's  right. 

This  bit  of  "  the  thin  red  line." 

And  over  our  loyal  land  to-night. 
Where  the  stars  of  our  freedom  shine. 


330  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

From  all  true  hearts  the  prayer  goes  up 
For  our  bit  of  "  the  thin  red  line," 

They  have  gone  to  fight  the  freeman's  fight. 

For  our  far-off  kith  and  kin ; 
Brothers  of  our  own  blood  and  breed. 

In  the  fight  where  the  right  must  win: 

For  the  sacred  cause  of  freedom's  laws, 

To  win  the  glad  release 
Of  those  who  tread  'neath  tyrannies  dread, 

And  widen  the  gates  of  peace. 

We  send  them  forth  from  our  "  True  North," 

For  sacred  bond  and  sign, 
That  well  or  ill,  to  the  great  brave  end, 

We  are  Britons  from  brine  to  brine ; 

And  whenever  the  Lion's  hunters  are  out. 
And  danger  threatens  his  lair. 

Be  the  world  on  this  side,  he  on  that, 
Canadian  hearts  are  there ; — 

And  stand  or  fall,  though  we  go  to  the  wall, 

Canadian  hearts  are  true, 
Not  only  to  stand  for  our  own  birthland. 

But  to  die  for  the  Empire  too. 

Yea,  we  send  them  forth,  from  our  "  True 
North," 

Sons  of  the  Empire's  might ; 
And  alien  the  heart  that  will  not  pray 

For  our  soldier-boys  to-night. 

Yea,  traitor  the  heart  that  takes  our  bread. 
And  drinks  our  free  sunshine, 

That  will  not  throb  when  the  battle  joins. 
For  our  bit  of  "  the  thin  red  line." 


RETURN  OF  THE   TROOPS  331 

Return  of  the  Troops 

(Ottawa,  November,  1900) 

Canadian  heroes  hailing  home, 

War-worn  and  tempest  smitten, 
Who  circled  leagues  of  rolling  foam 

To  hold  the  earth  for  Britain; 

When  rose  War's  red  and  angry  wraith. 

Duty  and  death  before  you ; 
Our  pledge  to  Empire  of  our  faith, 

You  went  and  boldly  bore  you. 

When  late  October,  loath  to  die, 

Hi«  wintry  strain  had  sung  us ; 
You  kissed  fond  lips,  and  dauntlessly 

Went  marching  from  among  us. 

Your  moment  came ;  in  letters  large 

You  retold  Britain's  story ; 
At  Paardeberg's  immortal  charge 

You  wrote  our  name  in  glory. 

When  sad  November's  grief  doth  throw 

His  autumn  weird  upon  us. 
You  come  returning  with  the  glow 

Of  all  the  fame  you've  won  us. 

We  hear  old  Britain  praise  your  name. 

The  voice  of  Empire  calling; 
And  glory  leaps  up  as  the  flame 

Of  red  leaves  lately  falling ; 


3S2  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

But  0 1  the  ones  whose  breasts  are  stilled. 
Past  all  our  strife  and  yearning ; 

Whose  hero  hearts  in  earth  are  hilled. 
For  whom  is  no  returning; 

For  whom  no  morrow  hath  its  birth. 

Or  chapter  of  life's  story; 
Who  sleep  far  off  in  alien  earth. 

Who  died  for  Britain's  glory; 

Who  heard  the  call  and  bravely  rushed 
Where  shot  and  shell  were  flaming; 

We  think  of  them,  and  hearts  are  hushed. 
Amid  the  wild  acclaiming; 

We  think  of  them,  those  voiceless  ones. 
Whose  absence  speaks  more  loudly 

Than  all  these  gleaming  ranks  of  guns 
Of  victors  marching  proudly. 

We  think  of  them,  and  up  along 
The  miles  of  shouting  madness, 

The  wild,  glad  surging,  jubilant  throng, 
A  silence  goes  of  sadness. 

Yea,  sadness,  but  exultantly; 

For  though  in  earth  beneath  us. 
In  far-off,  alien  graves  they  lie. 

Our  dead  go  marching  with  us. 

Far,  far  in  London's  mighty  heart. 
Where  life  goes  blindly  thronging, 

Leagues  from  the  homes  they  loved,  apart 
The  land  of  all  their  longing. 

In  marbled  columns,  side  by  side, 
Britain — the  glory-giver, 


CROWNING  OF  EMPIRE  333 

With  all  her  mighty  dead  who  died, 
"Will  write  their  names  forever; 

Great,  with  the  great  of  victories  won 

From  Waterloo's  red  lava, 
To  that  famed  line  that  thundered  on 

To  death  at  Balaclava. 

But  here  in  their  own  loving  north 

Where  maples  leaves  are  falling. 
And  all  the  nation's  heart  goes  forth 

Unto  her  great  dead  calling ; 

Her  noble  and  her  gallant  sons. 

Beyond  our  mad  to-morrow, 
Will  wait  the  last  great  matin  guns, 

Enshrined  in  our  high  sorrow. 

Higher  than  storied  shaft  above. 

Than  gilded  pomp's  acclaiming. 
Ennobled  in  a  people's  love. 

Past  all  heroic  naming. 


Crowning  of  Elmpire 

(Ode  written  for  the  Coronation,  in  June,  1901) 

Thou  latest  bloom  of  liberty-loving  states. 
Peerless,  new-found,  thou  vast  imperial  flower, 
Thou  dream  of  patriots,  golden  possibility. 
As  yet  imtried,  unweighed  in  fortune's  balance, 
The  hope  of  few,  the  wonder  of  the  many. 
Thou  splendid  pinnacle  of  human  days. 
Whereby  earth's  aliens  linked  in  speech  and  blood 
And  heart  allegiance  to  one  flag,  one  throne. 


334  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

One  common  dream  of  liberty  and  rule. 

Do  come  together,  one  imperial  whole. 

In  world-wide  common  amity  of  blood. 

And  equal  vision,  nursing  one  high  resolve 

Not  to  be  crushed  by  this  ignoble  day, 

Where  many  voices  jargon  many  tongues. 

And  hatreds  foiled,  and  superstitions  dire. 

Cloaked  in  poor  freedom's  many-chequered  garb, 

Do  crouch  and  snarl  and  wait  to  strike  thee  down. 

In  this  auspicious,  high  imperial  June, 

This  month  of  summer  yearning  to  his  tide. 

And  all  divine  emotions  of  the  year, 

'Tis  meet  that  in  that  centre  of  world-force, 

That  arbiter  of  destinies  obscure, 

Where  all  the  glowing,  blossoming  Junes  do  meet. 

Of  world-ambitions,  on  whose  golden  reefs 

Do  break  the  mighty  beatings  of  the  world. 

That  there  from  whence  her  myriad  sons  went  out. 

To  build,  to  fight,  to  conquer  or  repel. 

Back  to  her  strength  her  conquering  sons  return. 

From  all  those  lands  of  alien  summers  and  suns. 

Of  winters  and  despairings  nobly  met. 

Her  hosts  of  children  now  return  once  more. 

Her  wide  imperial  hosts,  with  symbols  dear. 

Of  silvern  links  of  blood  and  golden  speech. 

To  crown  her  empire  when  she  crowns  her  king. 

Not  mine  to  praise  where  many  falsely  laud. 

And  in  high-sounding  numbers  ape  the  strain 

Of  some  divine  Apollo;  rather  my  task 

Of  admonition  to  those,  loyal,  who  read 

Impending  danger  yet  are  wisely  strong; 

Wlio  in  the  sunlight  know  the  black'ning  storm. 

And  build  the  safety  'gainst  the  coming  ill. 


CROWNING  OF  EMPIRE  335 

Yea,  would  I  rather  raise  prophetic  voice. 

Amid  this  majesty  and  high  acclaim. 

This  vast  supreme  laudation  of  a  world. 

To  warn  this  greatness  'gainst  her  possible  doom. 

Lest  tranced  in  dreams  of  far,  earth-circling  rule. 

Her  very  vastness,  wide,  imperial  power, 

Do  house  a  frailty  that  may  thrust  her  down. 

Crushed  in  ruin  wide  by  her  immense 

Titan-like  shoulders,  whereon  heavy,  outspread, 

God-like  Responsibility  ever  broods. 

Pondering  on  the  miseries  of  this  world. 

Iron-welded,  0  my  people,  Saxon,  Celt, 

Victorious  Northmen,  strenuous,  masterful. 

Not  to  be  strangled  in  time's  ocean  flood. 

Sucked  down  in  vortex  of  old  ruin  dire, 

But  to  remain,  contend,  depose  and  rule, 

Till  earth's  white  morn  outflames  her  latest  night, 

And  freedom  breaks  in  gold  about  the  world. 

This  thine  old  spirit,  mighty,  undismayed. 
High,  self-sustaining,  individual,  free. 
Protesting  ever,  fronting  creeds  of  dark. 
Denouncing  ever  the  old  despotic  lie, 
Pending  the  veils  of  doubt  'twixt  God  and  man, 
Eeading  the  morning  in  the  ancient  stars, 
And  the  mind's  vastness  in  the  spirit's  wars. 

From  London's  smoke  of  commerce  blackening  down, 
Her  mighty  abbeys  and  her  centuried  town. 
Her  million  toilers  and  her  master  minds. 
Her  fleets  of  commerce  swept  to  every  wind, 
"Whence  went  her  myriads  who  in  shores  remote 
Eebuilt  her  greatness,  echoed  her  vast  heart. 
World-throbbing  in  its  grim  immensity. 


336  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

To  mighty  vasts  of  lone  Australian  wilds 
And  bleak  Canadian  woods,  the  cradles  grim 
Of  Saxon  iron  and  of  Celtic  gold; 
Out  round  the  world  where'er  blue  ocean  breaks, 
'Mid  temperate  climes  or  fevered  tropic  lands, 
Or  Arctic  wastes,  her  strong,  indomitable  sons 
Do  crush  defeat  and  make  this  earth  their  own. 
Determining  all,  moulding  the  world's  best  dream 
Of  strife  and  life  and  liberty  of  man. 

From  where  soft-lipped,  blue  Mediterranean  laves 

In  summer  ripples  Mediterranean  strands. 

To  where  iron-bound,  fog-mantled  Labrador 

Juts  out  to  lonely,  lost  Atlantean  glooms. 

The  iron  glove  of  empire,  tempered,  firm, 

Doth  hold  in  grasp  the  welfare  of  the  world. 

Quebec,  Gibraltar,  herculean  gates. 

Grim  portals  each  of  old  and  new  world  power. 

Anchors  of  that  vastness  of  her  dream, 

Eeaching  round  the  wide-ribbed,  shouldered  earth. 

The  shining  ocean  and  the  desert's  span, 

A  power  peace-yearning,  glad,  beneficent. 

This  younger  Eome  of  this  imperial  day. 

Beaconing  liberty,  conquering  to  redeem. 

This  her  sole  dream,  look  that  she  lose  it  not. 
As  tranced  in  toil,  heavily-wheeled,  she  turns 
Like  some  vast  planet  on  its  cloudward  wing. 
Callous  of  danger,  strong  in  high  resolve. 
Half  conscious  of  her  might,  fulfilling  good. 
Unto  the  conquering  ultimate  of  her  end. 
Yea,  not  to  praise,  but  rather  to  arraign, 
I«st  she  in  folly  let  her  dream  lie  down. 
And  all  her  ancient,  mighty  power  depart. 
And  all  her  majesty  of  light  become 
A  ruined  furnace  from  whose  smouldering  gleam 


CROWNING  OF  EMPIRE  S9l 

The  younger  nations  haply  steal  a  spark 

To  light  their  lesser,  late  decadent  fires 

Of  national  ardors :  lest  in  her  too  credulous, 

O'ermastering  love  of  human  liberty, 

She  let  the  evil  in  in  guise  of  good. 

The  tyrant  'neath  her  freedom  nurse  his  power 

And  suckle  the  serpent  at  her  loyalty's  breasts. 

That  ancient  enemy  of  all  her  days. 

To  use  her  liberty  to  strike  her  down ; 

Lest  she,  forgetting  how  the  fathers  fought 

And  strove  and  lived  and  died  for  her  great  cause. 

And  in  her  dream  of  madness  compromise 

Her  truth,  her  light,  for  fancied  rule  and  power. 

Where  no  power  lies,  no  loyalty,  but  a  cloak. 

False  and  cunning,  covering  subtlest  dream 

To  rise  and  rend  her  doth  a  danger  come; 

Lest  she  in  all  this  greatness  on  her  laid. 
This  earth-wide,  vast,  imperial  mantle,  stained 
With  blood  of  those  who  loved  her,  gave  her  all, 
Not  recking  save  that  they  did  love  her,  died 
That  she  might  live,  and  spread  that  mantle  vast 
To  outmost  rim  of  despot-burdened  earth : 
Lest  she  'mid  all  this  pageant,  glad,  forget 
Her  one  high  dream :  her  steadfast  sons  forget. 
On  whom  alone,  in  that  inevitable  hour, 
Which  comes  alike  to  nations  and  to  men. 
True  Britons,  loyal,  she  may  place  her  trust. 

This  my  note  in  this  imperial  hour, 
This  high,  auspicious,  world-compelling  day; 
AVhen  cohorts  from  earth's  alien  peoples  meet. 
And  East  greets  West  in  challenge,  high,  of  power. 
And  all  the  world-wide  splendor  gathered  far. 
In  tribute  meet  to  earth's  imperial  king. 


338  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Yea,  this  my  note,  remembering  empire's  bounds 
Not  larger  than  the  loyalty  that  upholds ; 
Not  wider  than  the  speech  that  makes  us  one; 
Not  greater  than  the  pride  of  olden  dreams. 
Of  common  blood,  of  common  faith  and  song. 

For  vain  the  splendor  and  the  freedom  vast. 
And  vain  the  iron  power  that  makes  it  sure. 
And  vain  the  mighty  toil  that  would  endure 
If  love  be  not  the  anchor  that  withstands. 

For  earth  is  worn  of  conquest-sanguined  states. 
And  bloody  wars  for  base,  material  ends. 
Of  blatant  voices  calling  unto  strife : 
Only  the  calm  and  patient  will  remain. 
Only  the  noble  effort  will  endure. 

And  he.  Imperial  Edward,  august  son 

Of  her  who,  gracious,  noble,  held  so  long 

Her  people's  fealty:  he  who  stands  for  all 

This  vast,  earth-circling  rule,  beneficent. 

This  power  that  makes  for  freedom  round  the  world, 

Whose  rule  is  one  with  those  wise,  ancient  laws 

Of  mighty  Alfred ;  that  rare  golden  speech 

Of  Shakespeare  made  immortal,  liberty 

Loved  of  Scot  and  Saxon  where'er  wide 

Love's  golden  bonds  of  kinship  gird  the  world:— 

Yea,  he,  our  august  monarch,  may  his  rule 

Be  splendid,  fruitful,  may  his  days  be  spared 

To  golden  out  to  mellowed  olden  age 

To  rule  us  happy,  with  his  noble  Queen. 

And  we,  true  steadfast  Britons,  severed  wide. 
Where  ever  Orient  skies,  h3rperion  star 
Shine  on  the  mighty  pulsings  of  the  world. 
Keep  we  the  loyalty  to  our  speech  and  blood. 
Brother  with  brother,  kindred  peoples  set 
About  the  base  of  one  imperial  throne. 


Xahe  Xprics 


VAPOR  AND  BLUE  341 


Vapor  and  Blue 

Domed  with  the  azure  of  heaven, 
Floored  with  a  pavement  of  pearl, 

Clothed  all  about  with  a  brightness 
Soft  as  the  eyes  of  a  girl. 

Girt  with  a  magical  girdle, 

Kimmed  with  a  vapor  of  rest — 
These  are  the  inland  waters, 

These  are  the  lakes  of  the  west. 

Voices  of  slumberous  music. 

Spirits  of  mist  and  of  flame. 
Moonlit  memories  left  here 

By  gods  who  long  ago  came. 

And  vanishing  left  but  an  echo 

In  silence  of  moon-dim  caves. 
Where  haze-wrapt  the  August  night  slumbers. 

Or  the  wild  heart  of  October  raves. 

Here  where  the  jewels  of  nature 
Are  set  in  the  light  of  God's  smile. 

Far  from  the  world's  wild  throbbing, 
I  will  stay  me  and  rest  me  awhile. 

And  store  in  my  heart  old  music. 

Melodies  gathered  and  sung 
By  the  genies  of  love  and  of  beauty 

When  the  heart  of  the  world  was  young. 


342  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 


The  Children  of  the  Foam 

Out  forever  and  forever, 

Where  oiir  tresses  glint  and  shiver 

On  the  icy  moonlit  air; 
Come  we  from  a  land  of  gloaming, 
Children  lost,  forever  homing, 

Never,  never  reaching  there; 
Eide  we,  ride  we,  ever  faster. 
Driven  l)y  our  demon  master. 

The  wild  wind  in  his  despair. 
Eide  we,  ride  we,  ever  home. 
Wan,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

In  the  wild  October  dawning. 
When  the  heaven's  angry  awning 

Leans  to  lakeward,  bleak  and  drear; 
And  along  the  black,  wet  ledges. 
Under  icy,  cavemed  edges. 

Breaks  the  lake  in  maddened  fear; 
And  the  woods  in  shore  are  moaning ; 
Then  you  hear  our  weird  intoning. 

Mad,  late  children  of  the  year; 
Eide  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Lost,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

All  grey  day,  the  black  sky  under. 
Where  the  beaches  moan  and  thunder. 

Where  the  breakers  spume  and  comb. 
You  may  hear  our  riding,  riding. 
You  may  hear  our  voices  chiding, 

Under  glimmer,  under  gloam; 
Like  a  far-off  infant  wailing. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  FOAM  343 

You  may  hear  our  hailing,  hailing. 

For  the  voices  of  our  home ; 
Eide  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Haunted  children  of  the  foam. 

And  at  midnight,  when  the  glimmer 
Of  the  moon  grows  dank  and  dimmer. 

Then  we  lift  our  gleaming  eyes ; 
Then  you  see  our  white  arms  tossing, 
Our  wan  breasts  the  moon  embossing. 

Under  gloom  of  lake  and  skies ; 
You  may  hear  our  mournful  chanting. 
And  our  voices  haunting,  haunting. 

Through  the  night's  mad  melodies; 
Eiding,  riding,  ever  home, 
Wild,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

There,  forever  and  forever, 
WiU  no  demon-hate  dissever 

Peace  and  sleep  and  rest  and  dream; 
There  is  neither  fear  nor  fret  there 
When  the  tired  children  get  there, 

Only  dews  and  pallid  beam 
Fall  in  gentle  peace  and  sadness 
Over  long  surcease  of  madness. 

From  hushed  skies  that  gleam  and  gleam : 
In  the  longed-for,  sought-f or  home 
Of  the  children  of  the  foam. 

There  the  streets  are  hushed  and  restful. 
And  of  dreams  is  every  breast  full. 

With  the  sleep  that  tired  eyes  wear; 
There  the  city  hath  long  quiet 
From  the  madness  and  the  riot, 

From  the  failing  hearts  of  care ; 


344  POEMS  OF  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Balm  of  peacefulness  ingliding. 
Dream  we  through  our  riding,  riding. 

As  we  homeward,  homeward  fare; 
Eiding,  riding,  ever  home. 
Wild,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

Under  pallid  moonlight  beaming, 
Under  stars  of  midnight  gleaming, 

And  the  ebon  arch  of  night ; 
Eound  the  rosy  edge  of  morning. 
You  may  hear  our  distant  horning, 

You  may  mark  our  phantom  flight ; 
Eiding,  riding,  ever  faster. 
Driven  by  our  demon  master, 

Under  darkness,  under  light; 
Eide  we,  ride  we,  ever  home. 
Wild,  white  Children  of  the  foam. 


How  One  Winter  Came  in  the  Lake  Region 

For  weeks  and  weeks  the  autumn  world  stood  still. 

Clothed  in  the  shadow  of  a  smoky  haze; 
The  fields  were  dead,  the  wind  had  lost  its  will. 
And  all  the  lands  were  hushed  by  wood  and  hill, 
In  those  grey,  withered  days. 

Behind  a  mist  the  blear  sun  rose  and  set. 
At  night  the  moon  would  nestle  in  a  cloud; 

The  fisherman,  a  ghost,  did  cast  his  net ; 

The  lake  its  shores  forgot  to  chafe  and  fret. 
And  hushed  its  caverns  loud. 

Far  in  the  smoky  woods  the  birds  were  mute. 
Save  that  from  blackened  tree  a  jay  would 
scream, 


ON  THE  SHORE  34E 

Or  far  in  swamps  the  lizard's  lonesome  lute 
Would  pipe  in  thirst,  or  by  some  gnarled  root 
The  tree-toad  trilled  his  dream. 

From  day  to  day  still  hushed  the  season's  mood, 
The  streams  stayed  in  their  runnels  shrunk  and 
dry; 
Suns  rose  aghast  by  wave  and  shore  and  wood. 
And  all  the  world,  with  ominous  silence,  stood 
In  weird  expectancy : 

When  one  strange  night  the  sun  like  blood  went 
down. 
Flooding  the  heavens  in  a  ruddy  hue ; 
Eed  grew  the  lake,  the  sere  fields  parched  and 

brown, 
Eed  grew  the  marshes  where  the  creeks  stole  down. 
But  never  a  wind-breath  blew. 

That  night  I  felt  the  winter  in  my  veins, 

A  Joyous  tremor  of  the  icy  glow; 
And  woke  to  hear  the  north's  wild  vibrant  strains. 
While  far  and  wide,  by  withered  woods  and  plains, 

Fast  fell  the  driving  snow. 

On  the  Shore 

(Age) 

With  golden  spiced  dreams  blows  in  the  dawn. 
About  the  cool  blue  bosom  of  the  lake; 
Far  over  wave  and  shore  wild  voices  wake, 

The  watery  curves  and  windy  reeds  upon. 

Where  the  young  glory  of  the  day  dreams  on; 
And  winged  creatures  haunts  of  sleep  forsake. 
And  dreams  and  silence  their  dim  ways  betake 

Eound  the  grey  edge  where  lidded  night  hath  gone^ 


346  POEMS  OF   WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Here  all  is  young  and  glad,  the  laughing  shore. 
The  sunshine,  the  glad  birds,  no  memories 
On  haggard  faces  wistful  to  forget ; 
Save  yon  old  man  beside  the  rude  hut  door. 
With  palsied  hands,  chin  bending  to  his  knees. 
Mending  dead  youth  in  meshes  of  a  net. 


The  Winter  Lakes 

Out  in  a  world  of  death  far  to  the  northward  lying, 
Under  the  sun  and  the  moon,  under  the  dusk  and  the 
day; 
Under  the  glimmer  of  stars  and  the  purple  of  sunsets 
dying. 
Wan  and  waste  and  white,  stretch  the  great  lakes 
away. 

Never  a  bud  of  spring,  never  a  laugh  of  summ'^r, 

Never  a  dream  of  love,  never  a  song  of  bird; 
But  only  the  silence  and  white,  the  shores  that  grow 
chiller  and  dumber. 
Wherever  the  ice  winds  sob,  and  the  griefs  of  winter 
are  heard. 

Crags  that  are  black  and  wet  out  of  the  grey  lake 
looming. 
Under  the  sunset's  flush  and  the  pallid,  faint  glimmer 
of  dawn; 
Shadowy,  ghost-like  shores,  where  midnight  surfs  are 
booming 
Thunders  of  wintry  woe  over  the  spaces  wan. 

Tjands  that  loom  like  spectres,  whited  regions  of  winter. 
Wastes  of  desolate  woods,  deserts  of  water  and  shore; 


A  LAKE  MEMORY  347 

A  world  of  winter  and  death,  within  these  regions  who 
enter. 

Lost  to  summer  and  life,  go  to  return  no  more. 
Moons  that  glimmer  above,  waters  that  lie  white  under. 

Miles  and  miles  of  lake  far  out  under  the  night ; 
Foaming  crests  of  waves,  surfs  that  shoreward  thunder, 

Shadowy  shapes  that  flee,  haunting  the  spaces  white. 

Lonely  hidden  bays,  moon-lit,  ice-rimmed,  winding, 
Fringed  by  forests  and  crags,  haunted  by  shadowy 
shores ; 
Hushed  from  the  outward  strife,  where  the  mighty  surf 
is  grinding 
Death  and  hate  on  the  rocks,  as  sandward  and  land- 
ward it  roars. 


A  Lake  Memory 

The  lake  comes  throbbing  in  with  voice  of  pain 
Across  these  flats,  athwart  the  sunset's  glow ; 

I  see  her  face,  I  know  her  voice  again. 
Her  lips,  her  breath,  0  God,  as  long  ago. 

To  live  the  sweet  past  over  I  would  fain. 

As  lives  the  day  in  the  red  sunset's  fire. 
That  all  these  wild,  wan  marshlands  now  would  stain, 

With  the  dawn's  memories,  loves  and  flushed  desire. 

I  call  her  back  across  the  vanished  years. 

Nor  vain — a  white-armed  phantom  fills  her  place; 

Its  eyes  the  wind-blown  sunset  fires,  its  tears 
This  rain  of  spray  that  blows  about  my  face. 


348  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

The  Flight  of  the  Gulls 

Out  over  the  spaces. 
The  sunny,  blue  places, 

0?  water  and  sky; 
"Where  day  on  day  merges 

In  nights  that  reel  by ; 
Through  calms  and  through  surges. 
Through  stormings  and  lulla, 
0,  follow, 

Follow, 
The  flight  of  the  gulls. 

With  wheeling  and  reeling, 
With  skimming  and  stealing. 

We  wing  with  the  wind. 
Out  over  the  heaving 
Of  grey  waters,  leaving 

The  lands  far  behind. 
And  dipping  ships'  hulls. 
0,  follow, 

Follow, 
The  flight  of  the  gulls. 

Up  over  the  thunder 
Of  reefs  that  lie  under. 

And  dead  sailors'  graves; 
Like  snowflakes  in  summer. 
Like  blossoms  in  winter. 

We  float  on  the  waves. 
And  the  shore-tide  that  pulls. 
0,  follow. 

Follow, 
The  flight  of  the  gulls. 


//OW  SPRING  CAME  349 

Would  you  know  the  wild  vastness 
Of  the  lakes  in  their  fastness, 

Their  heaven's  blue  span; 
Then  come  to  this  region. 

From  the  dwellings  of  man. 
Leave  the  life-care  behind  you. 
That  nature  annuls. 
And  follow. 

Follow, 
The  flight  of  the  gulls. 


How  Spring  Came 

(To  the  Lake  Region) 

No  PASSIONATE  ciy  Came  over  the  desolate  places. 
No  answering  call  from  iron-bound  land  to  land; 

But  dawns  and  sunsets  fell  on  mute,  dead  faces, 
And  noon  and  night  death  crept  from  strand  to 
strand. 

Till  love  breathed  out  across  the  wasted  reaches. 
And  dipped  in  rosy  dawns  from  desolate  deeps; 

And  woke  with  mystic  songs  the  sullen  beaches. 

And  flamed  to  life  the  pale,  mute,  death-like  sleeps. 

Then  the  warm  south,  with  amorous  breath  inblowing. 
Breathed  soft  o'er  breast  of  wrinkled  lake  and  mere; 

And  faces  white  from  scorn  of  the  north's  snowing. 
Now  rosier  grew  to  greet  the  kindling  year. 


360  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Lake  Huron 

(October) 

Miles  and  miles  of  lake  and  forest. 
Miles  and  miles  of  sky  and  mist. 

Marsh  and  shoreland  where  the  rushes 
Eustle,  wind  and  water  kissed; 

Where  the  lake's  great  face  is  driving. 
Driving,  drifting  into  mist. 

Miles  and  miles  of  crimson  glories. 
Autumn's  wondrous  fires  ablaze; 

Miles  of  shoreland  red  and  golden. 
Drifting  into  dream  and  haze; 

Dreaming  where  the  woods  and  vapors 
Melt  in  myriad  misty  ways. 

Miles  and  miles  of  lake  and  forest. 
Miles  and  miles  of  sky  and  mist ; 

Wild  birds  calling  where  the  rushes 
Bustle,  wind  and  water  kissed ; 

Where  the  lake's  great  face  is  driving. 
Driving,  drifting  into  mist. 

Sunset,  Lake  Huron 

(September) 

The  sunbeams  fall  in  golden  flakes, 

Like  snow-banks  flamed  the  clouds  are  furled; 

The  soft  light  shakes 

On  wave  that  breaks 

On  wave,  far  round  the  gleaming  world. 


SUNSET,  LAKE  HURON  3B1 

Great  brown,  bare  rocks,  wet,  purple  dyed. 
By  sunsets'  beams,  hedge  in  this  realm 

Of  sky  and  wide, 

Bleak  sweep  of  tide. 

Grey,  tossed,  scarce-plowed  by  keel  or  helm. 

The  east  looms  dark,  the  red  day  dips 
Down  under  gleaming  rock  and  wave. 

In  hushed  eclipse. 

While  grey  night  slips 

The  cerements  of  her  shrouded  grave. 

And  buildeth  up  her  arches  dark. 

From  ruins  of  the  dim  dead  day, 
Till  earth  may  mark 
Each  luminous  spark. 

Of  stars  that  far  in  heaven  stray. 

And  weaveth  with  her  phantom  hands 

(Blind,  dumb,  save  for  the  moon's  white  wreath, 

And  rude  wind  bands 

From  Eblis  lands) 

A  shroud  for  the  great  lake  beneath ; 

That  beats  and  moans,  a  prisoned  thing, 

Eock-manacled  beneath  the  night; 
And  tells  each  shore. 
Forever  more 

Its  sorrow  in  the  pallid  light. 


352  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Nama-Way-Qua-Donk — The  Bay  of  Sturgeons 

(Written  b  Boyhood) 

Commonly  known  as  Colpoy's  Bay,  an  arm  of  the  Georgian  Bay. 
This  is  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  nine  miles  long,  surrounded  by 
lofty  cliffs  of  limestone,  crowned  by  forests,  once  the  haunt  of  a 
tribe  of  Indians  called  Petons,  or  "Tobacco  Indians." 

Medwayosh  is  a  word  of  Ojibway  origin,  resembling  the  sound 
of  the  waves  beating  or  washing  on  the  shore. 

Cold  in  the  autumn  night — 
Sleeping  with  its  waters  bright, 
Gilded  by  the  moon's  pale  light, 
Stretching  to  the  northward  white — • 
Rests  the  Bay  of  Sturgeons. 

Huddled  round  it,  sleeping  soft, 
Looming  their  great  forms  aloft 
In  the  moonlight ; 

Bearded,  grey,  the  great  rocks  stand 
Silent,  hushed,  on  either  hand. 
As  if  some  dusky  warrior  band. 
To-night,  hushed,  from  the  spirit  land. 
Came  back  once  more. 

Gliding  here  on  either  shore. 
Lingering  near  the  haunts  of  yore, 
But  to  hear  the  waves  once  more 
As  in  nights  long,  long  before, 
Whisper:  Medwayosh. 

Towering  stem,  each  blanket  round. 

Have  the  silent  ages  wound, 

As  they  watched  above  each  mound. 


THE  BA  Y  OF  STURGEONS  8S3 

O'er  the  grave  or  battle-ground. 
Where  each  warrior  sleeps. 


Once  by  these  shores  these  warriors  played, 
Here  lover  bronzed  and  maiden  strayed. 
And  as  they  parted  coyly  stayed 
To  plight  their  troth. 

And  oft  when  summer  moons  were  young. 
When  swaying  branches  murmuring  hung. 
Whispered  their  loves  in  unknown  tongue. 
Oft  in  the  autumn  harvest  feast, 
Through  purple  mists  from  out  the  east. 
They  watched  old  Gheezis  golden-lieeced, 
Eise  o'er  the  forest. 

Here  many  a  warrior  sleeps  below, 
His  place  of  rest  full  well  they  know. 
Marked  where  the  midday's  glorious  glow 
Turns  to  the  west. 

The  world  of  men  may  bum  and  bum, 
But  in  these  dreamy  walls  of  fern, 
Swathed  in  deep  rest,  they  never  turn. 

Through  the  dim  ages  soft  they  sleep, 
Wrapt  in  calm  slumber,  long  and  deep, 
While  Nepenthean  dews  their  eyelids  steep. 

A  wild,  strange  banquet  long  ago, 
Whose  lamps,  in  midst  of  festive  glow 
And  mirthful  sounds,  burnt  sudden  low, 

0  sunsets  old,  long  wandered  down; 
0  ancient  Indian  shore  and  town. 


364  POEMS  OF  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

Time's  strange  dark  roll  hath  wrapt  around 
Thy  dreamless  sleep. 

P  saddest  picture  of  a  race — 

A  wild  and  passionate  broken  race — 

That  melting  nightward  leaves  no  trace. 

No  camp-fire  on  the  sweet,  loved  face 

Of  their  own  land; 

As  shades  that  wander  to  their  rest, 

Toward  those  dim  regions  of  the  west 

And  setting  sun. 


No  wonder  that  in  sternest  close 
The  last  wild  war-cry  weirdly  rose. 
To  break  the  settler's  short  repose 
In  midnight  hour. 

Sleep,  sleep,  by  dreamy  bank  and  stream; 
Sleep  through  the  dim  year's  afternoon ; 
Let  no  strange  babblers  break  thy  dream. 
No  softer,  weaker  voices  wean 
Thee  from  thy  rest. 

Sleep,  sleep,  by  dreamy  snore  and  glen; 
Sleep  on  through  murk,  and  mist,  and  moon. 
Through  the  mad  years  of  modem  men. 
While  only  dreams  of  cave  and  fen 
Fill  each  wild  breast. 


A^^^ 


